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WESTERN- RESERVE 
HISTORICAL SOCIETY, 

CLEVELAND, 0, 



ILLUSTRATED POEMS 







;^ 


MES. 


BY xy '^ 

LM^SIGOURNEY. 


^ Tt "?• c -ir^ '^ ,--^ 




WITH 


DESIGNS 


BY FELIX Oi 'Cv- p A R L E Y, 



ENGRAVED BY AMERICAN ARTISTS. 




PHILADELPHIA : 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON. 

18 65. 



.'h^ 
"v 



^^yy 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the ieah 1848, bt CAREY & HARI^ 
IN THE Clerk's Office op the District Court of the Eastf.rn District of 
Pennsylvania. 



€n §mm\ %nptB 



THE MOST VENEEABLE POET OF EtJKOPE, 

AND THE FRIEND OF AMERICA, 

WHOSE STRAINS, READ IN THE SOLITUDE OF EARLY YEARS, 

AND WHOSE KIND WORDS TO THE STRANGER IN HIS OWN HOME, 

ARE ALIKE HELD AMONG THE 

"Pcasu«a of jEemorg," 



THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



W«8t. Res. HlBt. Soc- 



PREFACE. 

The edition now presented to the public 
comprises selections from previous volumes, poems 
that have appeared only in a fugitive form, and 
others that have never before been indebted to 
the ministry of the press. 

It is hoped that its tripartite character may 
not be displeasing to the reader, since the genius 
of the artist and the taste of the publisher have 
lent their powerful aid to render it attractive. 
In the alcove of the library, on the centre-table 
of the matron, to the ear of the young and beau- 
tiful, it shall breathe only pure thoughts, like 
the dew-drops lingering upon the rose. May it 
be found worthy to touch some chord of that 
spirit-intercourse, to be perfected in a clime where 
the rose never fades, and the music-strain is im- 
mortal. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Oriska 17 

The Return of Napoleon from St. Helena 29 

Unspoken Language 34 

No Concealment 40 

Abraham at Machpelah -.43 

The Needle, Pen, and Sword , 4G 

The Thrush . ' 51 

The Ancient Family Clock ■ 54 

Fruitful Autumn 59 

The Old Elms 62 

To-Morrow 66 

Eve 72 

Connecticut River 76 

Bell of the Wreck 81 

Winter and Age 84 

Birds of Passage 8G 

Parting of the Widow's Son 90 

Aaron on Mount Hor ' . . 92 

Advertisement of a Lost Day 97 

The Early Blue-Bird 99 

The Ark and Dove ■ 101 

The Lobelia Cardinalis 104 

Farewell to the Flowers 108 

Storm-Sails 110 

7 



CONTENTS. 



The Scottish "Weaver 112 

Niagara 134 

The Coral Insect 137 

The Sunday-School 139 

The Indian Summer 141 

The Hermit of the Falls 143 

The Butterfly 150 

Solitude 151 

The Second Birth-day .153 

The Dead Horseman 155 

To a Shred of Linen 159 

Farewell to a Rural Residence 163 

Barzillai the Gileadite 167 

Gossip with a Bouquet 170 

Erin's Daughter 175 

The Holy Dead 177 

Dew-Drops . . 179 

Pocahontas 181 

The Little Footstep 210 

Scotland's Famine 213 

The Passing Bell 216 

The Western Emigrant 220 

The Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Girl at a Festival 224 

No God 230 

The Mourning Daughter 232 

Indian Names 237 

Farewell of the Soul to the Body 239 

Winter's Fete 242 

4nna Boleyn 246 

Recollections of an Aged Pastor 249 

Falls of the Yantic 252 

Widow at her Daughter's Bridal 255 

Marriage of the Deaf and Dumb 2.57 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Friends of Man 259 

To a Goose 264 

On the Admission of Michigan into the Union 2G8 

Stratford upon Avon 271 

Midnight Thoughts at Sea 275 

The Tomb . * '. 277 

"Show us the Father" 279 

Napoleon at St. Helena 281 

Columbia's Ships 286 

Alpine Flowers 289 

The Trial of the Dead . 291 

Bread in the Wilderness 298 

On Transplanting a Daisy from Runimede 301 

The Gift of Apollo 303 

Benevolence 305 

Bernardine du Born 307 

Morn and Even 310 

The Emigrant Mother 313 

Healing at Sunset ... 319 

Death of an Infant 321 

Filial Piety of David 323 

The Ivy 327 

The Aged Bishop 330 

The Rainbow t . 334 

The Thriving Family 336 

Flowers in Childhood and Age 339 

The Divided Burden 341 

The Infant's Prayer 344 

The Victim of the Deep . . .* 346 

Harold and Tosti 349 

Dreams 355 

The Clock at Versailles 358 

Heaven's Lesson 361 



10 CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Prince of Edom 363 

The Widowed Mother 366 

The Wish of the Weary Woman 367 

The First Missionary 370 

A Father to his Motherless Cliildren 373 

" Sorrow as on the Sea" 375 

Mutations 379 

Our Country 38-2 

Removal of an Ancient Mansion 386 

The Lost Lily 391 

Twilight 399 

The Unrifled Cabinet 401 

Talk with Time at the Close of the Year 403 

Man's Three Guests 405 



LIST OP THE ILLUSTRATIONS, 



DESIGNED BY DARLET. 



PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHORESS. 

{To face Title.) 

ENGRAVED BY CHENEY AND ARMSTKONG FROM A MINIATURE 
BY FREEMAN. 



A LANDSCAPE. 

(Title-Page.) 
ENGRAVED BY W. H. DOUGAL. 



THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 

ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 

" Soft tales have lovers told 
Into the thrilllug ear, 
Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old, 
Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near." 

Tlie Ancient Family Clod; p. 55. 
11 



12 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 

"Yet joyous was the hour when they, 
With shout and gambol fleet, 
Went hounding from the cottage door 
The approaching sire to greet." 

TM Scottish Weaver, p. 122. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

ENGRAVED BY HUMPHRYS AND WILLMORE. 

"No. When the groves 
In fleeting colours wrote their own decay. 
And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast 
That sang their dirge." 

The Indian Summer, p. 141. 



ERIN S DAUGHTER. 

ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 

"Poor Erin's daughter cross'd the main 
In youth's unfolding prime, 
A lot of servitude to bear 
In this our western clime." 

Erin's Daughter, p. 175. 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 13 



THE AGED PASTOR. 

ENGEAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 

"Often have we hush'd 
The shrillest echo of our holiday, 
Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass'd, 
And eager to record one favouring smile, 
Or vrord paternal." 

Recollections of an Aged Pastor, p. 249, 



THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 



ENGRAVED BY R. HINSHELWOOD. 



"A while he paused 
And set his burden down, just where the path 
Grew more precipitous, and wiped his hrow 
With his worn sleeve." 

Tfie Divided Burden, p. 341. 



THE BEAUTIFUL MAID. 



ENGRAVED BY W. HUMPHRYS. 



• 



'I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd, 
In youth resplendent, and by love caress'd 
Her clustering hair in sunny ringlets glow'd, 
Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd." 

Mutations, p. 380. 
B 



POEMS. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS. 



ORISKA. 

Far in the west, where still the red man held 
His rights unrifled, dwelt an aged chief, 
With his young daughter. Joyous as a bird, 
She found her pastime mid the forest shades, 
Or with a graceful vigour urged her skiff 
O'er the bright waters. The bold warriors mark'd 
Her opening charms, but deem'd her still a child, 
Or fear'd from their grave kingly chief to ask 
The darling of his age. 

A stranger came 
To traffic with the people, and amass 
Those costly furs which in his native clime 
Transmute so well to gold. The blood of France 
Was in his veins, and on his lips the wile 
That wins the guileless heart. Ofttimes at eve 
He sought the chieftain's dwelling, and allured 

2 B 2 17 



18 ORIbKA. 

The gentle girl to listen to his tale, 

Well framed and eloquent. With practised glance 

lie saw the love-flush on her olive cheek 

Make answer to him, though the half-hid brow 

Droop' d mid its wealth of tresses. 

"Ah! I know 
That thou dost love to please me. Thou hast put 
Thy splendid coronet of feathers on. 
How its rich crimson dazzles mid thj locks. 
Black as the raven's wing ! Thy bracelets, too ! 
Who told thee thou wert beautiful ? Hast seen 
Thy queenly features in yon mirror'd lake ? 
Bird of the Sioux ! let my nest be thine. 
And I will sing thee melodies that make 
Midnight like morn." 

With many a spell he charm'd 
Her trusting innocence ; the dance, the song, 
The legend, and the lay of other lands; 
And patient taught his pupil's lip to wind 
The maze of words with which his native tongue 
Refines the thought. The hoary chieftain frown'd; 
But when the smooth Canadian press'd his suit 
To be adopted by the tribe, and dwell 
Among them, as a brother and a son, — 
And when the indulgent sire observant read 
The timid pleading of Oriska's eye, — 



OR I SKA. 19 

He gave her tenderly, with sacred rites, 
In marriage to the stranger. 

Their sweet bower 
Rose like a gem amid the rural scene, 
O'er-canopied with trees, where countless birds 
Carol'd unwearied, the gaj squirrel leap'd, 
And the wild-bee went singing to his work, 
Satiate with luxury. Through matted grass, 
With silver foot, a frolic fountain stole. 
Still track' d by deepening greenness, while afar 
The mighty prairie met the bending skies, — 
A sea at rest, whose sleeping waves were flowers. 

Nor lack'd their lowly dwelling such device 
Of comfort, or adornment, as the hand 
Of gentle woman, sedulous to please, 
Creates for him she loves. For she had hung 
Attentive on his lips, while he described 
The household policy of prouder climes ; 
And with such varied and inventive skill 
Caught the suggestions of his taste refined. 
That the red people, wondering as they gazed 
On curtain'd window and on flower-crown'd vase, 
Carpet and cushion' d chair, and board arranged 
With care unwonted, call'd her home the court 
Of their French princess. 



20 ORISKA. 

A rich clustering vine 
Crept o'er their porch, and 'neath its fragrant shade 
Oriska sang her evening melodies. 
Tuneful and clear and deep, the echoed truth 
Of her soul's happiness. Her highest care 
And dearest pleasure was to make his lot 
Delightful to her lord; and he, well pleased 
With the simplicity of fervent love. 
And the high honour paid a chieftain's son, 
Roam'd with the hunters at his will, or brought 
Birdlings of brilliant plume, as trophies home 
To his young bride. 

Months fled, and with them change 
Stole o'er his love. And when Oriska mark'd 
The shadow darkening on his brow, she fear'd 
The rudeness of her nation, or perchance 
Her ignorance had err'd, and strove to do 
His will more perfectly. And though his moods 
Of harshness or disdain chill'd every joy, 
She blamed him not, for unto her he seem'd 
A higher being of a nobler race ; 
And she was proud and happy, might she bathe 
His temples in some fit of transient pain, 
Or by a menial's toil advance the feast 
Which still she shared not. When his step was heard, 
She bade her beating heart be still, and smooth'd 



OEISKA. 21 

The shining tresses he was wont to praise, 
And fondly hasting, raised her babe to meet 
His father's eye, contented if the smile 
That once was hers might beam upon his child : — 
But that last solace fail'd, and the cold glance 
Contemptuously repress'd her toil of love. 
And then he came no more. 

But as she watch' d 
Night after night, and question' d every hour. 
How bitterly those weeks and years were notch'd 
Upon the broken tablet of the soul. 
By that forsaken wife. 

Calm moonlight touch' d 
A fair Canadian landscape. Roof and spire. 
And broad umbrageous tree, were saturate 
With liquid lustre. O'er a lordly dome. 
Whose halls had late with bridal pomp been gay, 
The silvery curtains of the summer night 
Were folded quietly. 

A music-sound 
Broke forth abruptly from its threshold stone, 
Shrill and unearthly — not the serenade. 
That thrills on beauty's ear, but a bold strain, 
Loud even to dissonance, and oft prolonged 
In low, deep cadence, wonderfully sad, — 
The wild song of the Sioux. He who first 



22 ORISKA. 

Awaking, caught that mournful melody, 
Shudder' d with icy terror, as he threw 
His mantle o'er him, and rush'd madly forth 
Into the midnight air. 

" Hence ! Leave my door ! 
I know thee not, dark woman ! Hence away !" 

"Ah ! let me hear that voice ! How sweet its tones 
Fall on my ear, although the words are stern. 
Say! know'st thou not this boy? Whose eyes are these ? 
Those chestnut clusters round the lifted brow, — 
Said'st thou not in his cradle they were thine?" 

"How cam'st thou here, Oriska?" 

"We have trod 
A weary way. My father and his men 
Came on the business of their tribe, and I, 
Unto whose soul the midnight and the morn 
Have been alike for years, roam'd restlessly 
A wanderer in their train, leading our boy. 
My highest hope was but to hear, perchance. 
That thou didst live ; and lo ! a blessed guide 
Hath shown me to thy home." 

" Oriska, go ! 
I have a bride. Thou canst not enter here — 
I'll come to thee to-morrow." 



ORISKA. 23 

" Wilt thou come ? 
The white-hair'd chief, I fear me, fades away 
Unto the Spirit-land !" 

" I bid thee hence, 
To thine abode. Have I not said to thee 
I'll come to-morrow ?" 

With a heavy heart, 
Through silent streets, the sad-brow' d woman went, 
Leading her child. 

Morn came, and day declined. 
Yet still he came not. By her sire she watch'd, 
O'er whose dull eye a filmy shadow stole, 
While to her troubled question no reply 
Rose from his palsied lip. Nature and age 
Slept wearily and long. The second eve 
Darken' d the skies, when lo ! a well-known step — 
Jle stood before her. 

" Was it kind of thee, 
Oriska, thus to break my bridal hour 
With thy strange, savage music?" 

"Was thy wife 
Angry at the poor Indian ? Not to speak 
Harsh words I came : I would not think of thee 
A thought of blame. But oh ! mine aged sire, 
Thou see'st him dying in this stranger-land. 
Far from his fathers' graves. Be thou a friend 



24 ORISKA. 

When he is gone and I am desolate. 

Make me a household servant to thy wife. 

I'll bring her water from the purest spring, 

And plant the corn, and ply the flying oar, 

And never be impatient or require 

Payment from her, nor kind regard from thee. 

I will not call thee husband, — though thou taught'st 

My stammering lip that word when love was young, — - 

Nor ask one pitying look or favouring tone, 

Or aught, except to serve and pray for thee 

To the Great Spirit. And this boy shall do 

Her Avill, and thine." 

The pale face turn'd away 
With well-dissembled anger, though remorse 
Gnaw'd at his callous bosom ! 

" Urge me not ! 
It cannot be !" 

Even more he might have said, 
Basely and bitterly, but lo ! the chief 
Cast off the ice of death, and on his bed, 
With clenched hand and quivering lip, uprose : — 

^^His curse be on thee ! He, who knoweth where 
The lightnings hide !" 

Around the old man's neck 
Fond arms were wildly thrown. ''Oh, curse him not ! 



ORISKA, 25 

The father of my boj." And blinding tears 
Fell down so fast, she mark'd not with what haste 
The white-brow'd recreant fled. 

"I tell thee, child, 
The cold black gall-drop in a traitor's soul 
Doth make a curse. And though I curse him not, 
The sun shall hate him, and the waters turn 
To poison in his veins. 

But light grows dim. 
Go back to thine own people. Look no more 
On him whom I have cursed, and lay my bones 
Where my dead fathers sleep." 

A hollow groan, 
Wrung by extremest agony, broke forth 
From the old chieftain's breast. 

"Daughter, I go 
To the Great Spirit." 

O'er that breathless clay 
Bow'd down the desolate woman. No complaint. 
No sigh of grief burst forth. The tear went back 
To its deep fountain. Lip and fringed lid 
Trembled no more than in the statued bronze. 
Nor shrank one truant nerve, as o'er her pass'd 
The asphyxia of the heart. 

Day after day, 
O'er wild and tangled forest, moved a train, 



26 ORISKA. 

Bearing with smitten hearts their fallen chief; 

And next the bier a silent woman trod, 

A child's young hand forever clasp'd in hers, 

And on her lip no sound. Long was the way, 

Ere the low roof-trees of their tribe they saw 

Sprinkling the green ; and loud the funeral wail 

Rose for the honour' d dead, who, in his youth, 

Their battles led, and in his wintry years 

Had won that deeper reverence, which so well 

The forest-sons might teach our wiser race 

To pay to hoai-y age. Beneath the mounds, 

Where slept his ancient sires, they laid him down ; 

And there the gather' d nation mourn' d their sire. 

In the wild passion of untutor'd grief ; 

Then smoothed the pillow'd turf, and went their way. 



Who is yon woman, in her dark canoe, 
Who strangely towards Niagara's fearful gulf 
Floats on unmoved ? 

Firm and erect she stands, 
Clad in such bridal costume as befits 
The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes 
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge 
Of her embroider' d mantle, fleck' d with gold. 
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast. 



ORISKA. 37 

As though the spirit of that dread abyss, 
In terrible sublimity, had quell 'd 
All thought of earthly things. 

Fast by her side 
Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lip, 
Blanching with terror, steals the frequent cry 
Of "Mother! Mother!" 

But she answereth not. 
She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours 
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild. 
The death-song of her people. High it rose 
Above the tumult of the tide that bore 
The victims to their doom. The boy beheld 
The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye, 
And held his breath for awe. 

Her song grew faint, — 
And as the rapids raised their whitening heads. 
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide, 
She raised him in her arms, and clasp 'd him close. 
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove 
Down toward the unfathom'd gulf, while chilling spray 
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head 
Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him. 
With a low, stifled sob. 

And thus they took 
Their awful pathway to eternity. — 



ORISKA. 

One ripple on the mighty river's hrink, 

Just where it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge, 

And at the foot of that most dire abyss 

One gleam of flitting robe and raven tress 

And feathery coronet — and all was o'er, 

Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge 

Sounding their epitaph ! 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 29 



THE KETURN OF NAPOLEON 

FROM ST. HELENA. 

Ho ! City of the gay ! 

Paris ! what festal rite 
Doth call thy thronging million forth, 

All eager for the sight ? 
Thy soldiers line the streets 

In fix'd and stern array, 
With buckled helm and bayonet. 

As on the battle-day. 

By square, and fountain side, 

Heads in dense masses rise, 
And tower and battlement and tree 

Are studded thick with eyes. 
Comes there some conqueror home 

In triumph from the fight, 
With spoil and captives in his train, 

The trophies of his might ? 



30 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 

The "Arc de Triomplie" glows! 

A martial host are nigh, 
France pours in long succession forth 

Her pomp of chivalry. 
No clarion marks their way, 

No victor trump is blown; 
Why march they on so silently^ 

Told by their tread alone ? 

Behold ! in glittering show, * 

A gorgeous car of state t 
The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold. 

Bow down beneath its weight ; 
And the noble war-horse, led 

Caparison' d along. 
Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, 

As his red eye scans the throng. 

Who rideth on yon car ? 

The incense flameth high, — 
Comes there some demi-god of old ? 

No answer ! — ^No reply ! 
Who rideth on yon car ? — 

No shout his minions raise, 
But by a lofty chapel dome 

The muffled hero stays. 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 31 



A king is standing there, 

And with uncover'd head 
Receives him in the name of France : 

Receiveth whom? — The dead I 
Was he not buried deep 

In island-cavern drear; 
Girt bj the sounding ocean surge ? 

How came that sleeper here ? 

Was there no rest for him 

Beneath a peaceful pall, 
That thus he brake his stony tomb, 

Ere the strong angel's call ? ♦ 
Hark ! hark ! the requiem swells, 

A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! 
An echo, never to be heard 

By mortal ear again. 

A requiem for the chief, 

Whose fiat millions slew. 
The soaring eagle of the Alps, 

The crush'd at Waterloo: — 
The banish' d who return' d. 

The dead who rose again, 
And rode in his shroud the billows proud 

To the sunny banks of Seine. 



33 THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 

They laid him there in state, 

That warrior strong and bold, 
The imperial crown, with jewels bright, 

Upon his ashes cold, 
While round those columns proud 

The blazon'd banners wave. 
That on a hundred fields he won. 

With the heart's-blood of the brave ; 

And sternly there kept guard 

His veterans scarr'd and old, 
Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge 

Of purple Leipsic told. 
Yes, there, with arms reversed. 

Slow pacing, night and day. 
Close watch beside the coflSn kept 

Those veterans grim and gray. 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
Or memory of the fearful strife 

Where their country's legions fled ? 
Of Borodino's blood ? 

Of Beresina's wail ? 
The horrors of that dire retreat. 

Which turn'd old History pale ? 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON. 33 



A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead? 
Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 

By Russian tempests sped ? 
Where countless mounds of snow 

Mark'd the poor conscripts' grave, 
And, pierced by frost and famine, sank 

The bravest of the brave. 

A thousand trembling lamps 

The gather'd darkness mock, 
And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 

On bare Helena's rock; 
And from the altar near, 

A never-ceasing hymn 
Is lifted by the chanting priests 

Beside the taper dim. 

Mysterious one, and proud ! 

In the land where shadows reign, 
Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those 

Who at thy nod were slain ? 
Oh, when the cry of that spectral host 

Like a rushing blast shall be. 
What will thine answer be to them ? 

And what thy God's to thee ? 

Paris, Tuesday, Dec. 15, 1840. 3 



34 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 



UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 

Language is slow. The mastery of wants 
Doth teach it to the infant, drop by drop, 
As brooklets gather. 

Years of studious toil 
Unfold its classic labyrinths to the boy ; 
Perchance its idioms and its sequences 
May wear the shadow of the lifted rod, 
And every rule of syntax leave its tear 
For Memory's tablet. 

He who would acquire 
The speech of many lands, must make the lamp 
His friend at midnight, while his fellows sleep, 
Bartering to dusty lexicons and tomes 
The hour-glass of his life. 

Yet, there's a lore, 
Simple and sure, that asks no discipline 
Of weary years, — the language of the soul, 
Told through the eye. 

The mother speaks it well 



UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 35 

To the unfolding spirit of her babe, 
The lover to the lady of his heart, 
At the soft twilight hour, the parting soul 
Unto the angels hovering o'er its couch, 
With Heaven's high welcome. 

Oft the stammering lip 
Marreth the perfect thought, and the dull ear 
Doth err in its more tortuous embassy; 
But the heart's lightning hath no obstacle; 
Quick glances, like the thrilling wires, transfuse 
The telegraphic thought. 

The wily tongue, 
To achieve its purpose, may disguise itself. 
Oft, 'neath a glozing mask; and written speech 
Invoke the pomp of numbers to enrich 
Its dialect; but this ambassador 
From soul to sense may wear the plainest suit, — 
Ebon or hazel, azure-tint or gray. 
It matters not : the signet-ring of truth 
Doth give him credence. — 

Once, old Ocean raged; 
And a vex'd ship, by maddening waves impell'd, 
Rush'd on the breakers. Mid the wild turmoil 
Of rock and wave, the trumpet-clang, and tramp 
Of hurrying seamen, and the fearful shock 
With which the all-astonish' d mind resigns 



36 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 



The hope of life, a mother with her babe 

Sate in the cabin. He was all to her, 

The sole companion of her watery way. 

And nestling towards her bosom, raised his face 

Upward to hers. 

Her raven hair fell down 
In masses o'er her shoulders, while her eyes 
Fix'd with such deep intensity, that his 
Absorb' d their rays of thought, and seem'd to draw 
The soul mature, with all its burdening cares. 
Its wondrous knowledge, and mysterious strength, 
Into his baby-bosom. 

Word nor sound 
Pass'd 'tween that mother and her youngling child,- 
Too young to syllable the simplest name, — 
And yet, methought, they interchanged a vow 
Calmly beneath the unfathomable deep 
Together to go down, and that her arm 
Should closely clasp him mid its coral caves. 
The peril pass'd; but the deep eloquence 
Of that communion might not be forgot. 



A youth and maiden, on the banks of Tweed, 
Roved, mid the vernal flowers. At distance rose 
The towers of Abbotsford, among the trees, 



UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 37 

Wliich he, the great magician, who at will 
Could summon "spirits from the vasty deep," 
Had loved to plant. 

Methought of him they spake, 
Disporting in the fields of old romance 
With Ivanhoe, or the proud knight who fell 
At Flodden-field. Then, as the sun drew low. 
They sate them down, where the fresh heather grew, 
Listing, perchance, the descant of the birds. 
Or ripple of the stream. The hazel eye 
Of the young dweller 'neath the Eildon-Hills 
Perused the fair one's brow, till o'er it stole 
A deeper colouring than the rose-leaf tinge. 
— Speech there was none, nor gesture, yet the depth 
Of some unutter'd dialect did seem 
Well understood by them. And so they rose. 
And went their way. 

There was a crowded kirk, 
But not for Sabbath worship. With the train 
Was more of mirth than might, perchance, beseem 
Such sacred place. Wreaths too there were, and knots 
Of marriage-favour, and a group that prest 
Before the altar. And the trembling lip 
Of that young white-robed bride, murmuring the vow 
To love till death should part, interpreted 



38 UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 

That strong and voiceless language of the eye 
Upon the banks of Tweed. — 

I had a friend 
Beloved in halcyon days, whom stern disease 
Smote ere her prime. 

In curtain'd room she dwelt, 
A lingerer, while each waning moon convey'd 
Some treasured leaflet of our hope away. 
The power that with the tissued lungs doth dwell, 
Sweetly to wake the modulating lip. 
Was broken, — but the violet-tinctured eye 
Acquired new pathos. 

When the life-tide crept 
Cold through its channels, o'er her couch I bent. 
There was no sound. But in the upraised glance 
Her loving heart held converse, as with forms 
Not of this outer world. Unearthly smiles 
Gave earnest beauty to the pallid brow; 
While ever and anon the emaciate hand 
Spread its white fingers, as it fain would clasp 
Some object hovering near. 

The last faint tone 
Was a fond sister's name, one o'er whose grave 
The tui-f of years had gather' d. Was she there, — 
That disembodied dear one ? Did she give 



UNSPOKEN LANGUAGE. 39 



The kiss of welcome to the occupant 
Of her own infant cradle ? 

So 'twould seem. 
But that fix'd eye no further answer deign'd, 
Its earthly mission o'er. Henceforth it spake 
The spirit-lore of immortality. 



40 NO CONCEALMENT. 



NO CONCEALMENT. 

'There is nothing coyered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known." 

St. Matthew. 

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little stream ! 

That through the lowly vale dost wind thy way, 
Loving beneath the darkest arch to glide 

Of woven branches, blent with hillocks gray ? 
The mist doth track thee, and reveal thy course 

Unto the dawn, and a bright line of green 
Tingeth thy marge, and the white flocks that haste 

At summer-noon, to drink thy crystal sheen, 
Make plain thy wanderings to the eye of day ; 

And then thy smiling answer to the moon, 
Whose beams so freely on thy bosom sleep, 

Unfold thy secret, even to night's dull noon. 
How couldst thou hope, in such a world as this, 
To shroud thy gentle path of beauty and of bliss ? 



NO CONCEALMENT. 41 

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little seed ! 

That in the bosom of the earth art cast, 
And there, like cradled infant, sleep'st awhile, 

Unmoved by trampling storm, or thunder blast ? 
■ Thou bidest thy time, for herald spring shall come 

And wake thee, all unwilling as thou art, 
Unhood thine eyes, unfold thy clasping sheath. 

And stir the languid pulses of thy heart. 
The loving rains shall woo thee, and the dews 

Weep o'er thy bed, till, ere thou art aware. 
Forth steals the tender leaf, the wiry stem. 

The trembling bud, the flower that scents the air; 
And soon, to all, thy ripen' d fruitage tells 
The evil or the good that in thy nature dwells. 

Think'st thou to be conceal'd, thou little thought ! 

That in the curtain'd chamber of the soul 
Dost wrap thyself so close, and dream to do 

A hidden work ? Look to the hues that roll 
O'er the changed brow, the moving lip behold. 

Linking thee unto sound, the feet that run 
Upon thine errands, and the deeds that stamp 

Thy likeness plain before the noonday sun. 
Look to the pen that writes thy history down 

In those tremendous books that ne'er unclose 



42 NO CONCEALMENT. 

Until the Day of Doom ; and blush to see 

How vain thy trust in darkness to repose, 
Where all things tend to judgment. So beware, 
Oh erring human heart, what thoughts thou lodgest there. 



ABEAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 43 



ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 

Densely wrapp'd in shades, 
Olive and terebinth, its vaulted door 
Fleck'd with the untrain'd vine and matted grass, 
Behold Machpelah's cave. 

Hark ! hear we not 
A voice of weeping ? Lo, yon aged man 
Bendeth beside his dead. Wave after wave 
Of memory rises, till his lonely heart 
Sees all its treasures floating on the flood. 
Like rootless weeds. 

The earliest dawn of love 
Is present with him, and a form of grace 
Whose beauty held him ever in its thrall : 
And then the morn of marriage, gorgeous robes, 
And dulcet music, and the rites that bless 
The Eastern bride. Full many a glowing scene, 
Made happy by her tenderness, returns 
To mock his solitude. 

Again their home 



44 ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 

Gleams through the oaks of Mamre. There he sat, 
Rendering due rites of hospitality 
To guests who bore the folded wing of heaven 
Beneath their vestments. And her smile was there 
Among the angels. 

When her clustering curls 
W^ore Time's chill hoar-frost, with what glad surprise, 
What holy triumph of exulting faith, 
He saw, fresh blooming in her wither'd arms, 
A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth. 
Forever blending with that speechless joy 
Which thrill' d his soul when first a father's name 
Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow 
O'er which he weeps. 

Yet had he seen it wear 
Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought, 
Perchance, unlovely, in that trial-hour 
When to sad Hagar's mute, reproachful eye 
He answer' d nought, but on her shoulder bound 
The cruse of water and the loaf, and sent 
Her and her son, unfriended wanderers forth 
Into the wilderness. 

Say, who can mourn 
Over the smitten idol, by long years 
Cemented with his being, yet perceive 
No dark remembrance that he fain would blot. 



ABRAHAM AT MACHPELAH. 45 

Troubling the tear ? If there were no kind deed 
Omitted, no sweet healing word of love 
Expected, jet unspoken; no sharp tone, 
That jarr'd discordant on the quivering nerve, 
For which the weeper fain would rend the tomb 
To cry, "Forgive !" oh ! let him kneel and praise 
God amid all his grief. 

We may not say 
If aught of penitence was in the pang 
That wrung his labouring breast, while o'er the dust 
Of Sarah, at Machpelah's waiting tomb. 
The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down, 
A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth. 



46 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 



THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWOKD. 

What liast thou seen, with thy shining eye. 
Thou Needle, so subtle and keen ? — 
"I have been in Paradise, stainless and fair. 
And fitted the apron of fig-leaves there, 
To the form of its fallen queen. 

" The mantles and wimples, the hoods and veils, 

That the belles of Judah wore, 
When their haughty mien and their glance of fire 
Enkindled the eloquent prophet's ire, 

I help'd to fashion of yore. 

" The beaded belt of the Indian maid 

I have deck'd with as true a zeal 
As the gorgeous ruff of the knight of old, 
Or the monarch's mantle of purple and gold, 

Or the satrap's broider'd heel. 

" I have lent to Beauty new power to reign, 
At bridal and courtly hall. 



THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD 47 



Or wedded to Fashion, have help'd to bind 
Those gossamer links, that the strongest mind 
Have sometimes held in thrall. 

" I have drawn a blood-drop, round and red, 
From the finger small and white 
Of the startled child, as she strove with care 
Her doll to deck with some gewgaw rare. 
But wept at my puncture bright. 

" I have gazed on the mother's patient brow. 
As my utmost speed she plied. 
To shield from winter her children dear, 
And the knell of midnight smote her ear, 
While they slumber'd at her side. 

" I have heard in the hut of the pining poor 

The shivering inmate's sigh. 
When faded the warmth of her last, faint brand, 
As slow from her cold and clammy hand 

She let me drop, — to die!'' 



What dost thou know, thou gray goose-quill ? — 

And methought, with a spasm of pride, 
It sprang from the inkstand, and flutter'd in vain. 



48 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 

Its nib to free from the ebon stain, 
As it fervently replied : 

" What do I Jcnozv ! — Let the lover tell 
When into his secret scroll 
He poureth the breath of a magic lyre, 
And traceth those mystical lines of fire 
That move the maiden's soul. 

"TF/sai do Iltnoiol — The wife can say, 

As the leaden seasons move. 
And over the ocean's wildest sway, 
A blessed missive doth wend its way. 

Inspired by a husband's love. 

" Do ye doubt my power ? Of the statesman ask, 

Who buffets ambition's blast, — 
Of the convict, who shrinks in his cell of care, 
A flourish of mine hath sent him there. 

And lock'd his fetters fast ; 

" And a flourish of mine can his prison ope. 
From the gallows its victim save. 
Break off the treaty that kings have bound, 
Make the oath of a nation an empty sound, 
And to liberty lead the slave. 



THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 49 

" Say, what were History, so wise and old. 

And Science that reads the sky ? 
Or how could Music its sweetness store. 
Or Fancy and Fiction their treasures pour, 
Or what were Poesy's heaven-taught lore, 

Should the pen its aid deny ? 

" Oh, doubt if ye will, that the rose is fair, 

That the planets pursue their way. 
Go, question the fires of the noontide sun, 
Or the countless streams that to ocean run, 
But ask no more what the Pen hath done." 

And it scornfully turn'd away. 



What are thy deeds, thou fearful thing 

By the lordly warrior's side ? 
And the Sword answer' d, stern and slow, 
" The hearth-stone lone and the orphan know, 
And the pale and widow'd bride. 

" The shriek and the shroud of the battle-cloud. 
And the field that doth reek below. 
The wolf that laps where the gash is red, 
And the vulture that tears ere the life hath fled, 

4 E 



50 THE NEEDLE, PEN, AND SWORD. 

And the prowling robber that strips the dead, 
And the foul hyena know. 

" The rusted plough, and the seed unsown. 
And the grass that doth rankly grow 
O'er the rotting limb, and the blood-pool dark, 
Gaunt Famine that quenches life's lingering spark, 
And the black-wing'd Pestilence know. 

" Death with the rush of his harpy-brood, 

Sad Earth in her pang and throe, 
Demons that riot in slaughter and crime, 
And the throng of the souls sent, before their time, 

To the bar of the judgment — know." 

Then the terrible Sword to its sheath return' d. 

While the Needle sped on in peace. 
But the Pen traced out from a Book sublime 
The promise and pledge of that better time 
When the warfare of earth shall cease. 



THE THRUSH. 51 



THE THRUSH. 

"I'll pay my rent in music," said a thrush 
Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring, 
Where the thick foliage droop'd. And well he kept 
His simple contract. Not for quarter-day 
He coldly waited, nor a draft required 
To stir his memory, nor my patience tried 
With changeful currencies, but every morn 
Brought me good notes at par, and broke my sleep 
With his sweet-ringing coin. 

Sometimes, a song. 
All wildly trilling through his dulcet pipes. 
Falling, and caught again, and still prolong'd, 
Betray'd in what green nook the warbler sat, 
Each feather quivering with excess of joy. 
While from his opening beak and brightening eye 
There seem'd to breathe a cadence, " This is meant 
For your especial benefit." The lay 
With overruling shrillness more than once 
Did summon me to lay my book aside 



62 THE THRUSH. 



And wait its close ; nor was that pause a loss, 
But seem'd to tune and shape the inward ear 
To wisdom's key-tone. 

Then I had a share 
In softer songs, that cheer' d his brooding mate, 
Who, in the patience of good hope, did keep 
Her lengthen' d vigil ; and the voice of love 
That flow'd so fondly from his trusting soul 
Made glad mine own. 

Then, too, there was a strain 
From blended throats, that to their callow young . 
Breathed tenderness untold ; and the weak chirp 
Of new-born choristers, so deftly train'd. 
Each in the sweet way that he ought to go, 
Mix'd with that breath of household charities 
Which makes the spirit strong. 

And so I felt 
My rent was fully paid, and thought myself 
Quite fortunate, in these our times, to find 
Such honest tenant. 

But when autumn bade 
The northern birds to spread their parting wing, 
And that small house was vacant, and o'er hedge 
And russet grove and forest hoar with years 
The hush of silence settled, I grew sad 
To miss my kind musicians, and was fain 



THE THRUSH. 53 



To patronize with a more fervent zeal 
Sucli fireside music as makes winter short, 
And storms unheard. 

Yet leave within our hearts. 
Dear melodists, the spirit of your praise, 
Until ye come again ; and the brown nest. 
That now its downy lining to the winds 
Turns desolate, shall thrill at your return 
With the loud welcome home. 

For He who touch'd 
Your breasts with minstrelsy, and every flower 
With beauty, hath a lesson for his sons, 
In all the varied garniture that decks 
Life's banquet-board ; and he's the wisest guest 
Who taketh gladly what his Grod doth send. 
Keeping each instrument of joy in tune 
That helps to fit him for the choir of Heaven. 



64 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 



THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 

So here tliou art, old friend, 
Keady thine aid to lend, 

With honest face ; 
The gilded figures just as bright 

Upon thy painted case. 
As when I ran with young delight 
Their garniture to trace, 
And though forbid thy burnish'd robe to touch. 
Still gazed with folded hands, admiring long and much. 

But where is she who sate 
Near in her elbow-chair, 
Teaching with patient care 
Life's young beginner, on thy dial plate 
To count the winged minutes, fleet and fair, 
And mark each hour with deeds of love ? 
Lo, she hath broke her league with time, and found the 
rest above. 









Soft tales have lo-reis toll 

Into the thiilluig eai. 
Till midmglLt's witcliing hotir wajced old. 
Deemino the m selves aloiie. wMLe thou ■wext near. 



THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 55 

Thrice welcome, ancient crone 1 

'Tis sweet to gaze on thee, 
And hear thy busy heart heat on. 

Come, tell old tales to me : 
Old tales such as I love, of hoar antiquity. 

Thou hast good store, I trow, 

For laughing and for weeping, 
Things very strange to know. 

And none the worse for keeping. 
Soft tales have lovers told 
Into the thrilling ear. 
Till midnight's witching hour wax'd old, 
Deeming themselves alone, while thou wert near, 
In thy sly corner hid sublime. 
With thy Hick!' Hick!' to warn how Time 
Outliveth Love, boasting itself divine. 
Yet fading ere the wreath which its fond votaries twine. 

The unutter'd hopes and fears, 
The deep-drawn rapturous tears 

Of young paternity, 
Were chronicled by thee. 

The nursling's first faint cry. 
Which from a bright-hair' d girl of dance and song, 
The idol, incense-fed, of an adoring throng, 



56 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 

Did make a mother, with her quenchless eyes 
Of love, and truth, and trust, and holiest memories ; 
As Death's sharp ministry 
Robeth an angel when the mortal dies. 

Thy quick vibrations caught 
The cradled infant's ear, 
And while it scann'd thy face with curious fear, 
Thou didst awake the new-born thought, 
Peering through the humid eye. 
Like star-beam in a misty sky ; 
Though the nurse, standing still more near, 
Mark'd but the body's growing wealth. 

And praised that fair machine of clay, 
"Working in mystery and health 
Its wondrous way. 

Thy voice was like a knell. 
Chiming all mournful with the funeral bell. 
When stranger-feet came gathering slow 
To see the master of the mansion borne 
To that last home, the narrow and the low. 
From whence is no return. 

A laggard wert thou to the impatient breast 
Of watching lover, or long-parted wife. 



THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 57 

Counting each moment while the day unblest, 
Like wounded snake, its length did draw ; 

And blaming thee, as if the strife 
Of wild emotion should have been thy law, 
When thou wert pledged, in amity sublime, 
To crystal-breasted truth and sky-reporting time. 

Glad signal thou hast given 
For the gay bridal, when with flower-wreath' d hair 
And flushing cheek, the youthful pair 
Stand near the priest with reverent air, 

Dreaming that earth is heaven : — 
And thou hast heralded with joyance fair 
The green-wreath' d Christmas, and that other feast 
With which the hard lot of colonial care 
The pilgrim-sire besprinkled ; saving well 
The golden pumpkin and the fatted beast. 

And round-cheek' d apple, with its luscious swell 
Till, the thanksgiving sermon duly o'er. 
He greets his children at his humble door, 
Bidding them welcome to his plenteous hoard, 
As, gathering from their distant home, 
To knit their gladden'd hearts in love they come, 
Each with his youngling brood, round the gray father's 
board. 



58 THE ANCIENT FAMILY CLOCK. 

Thou hast outlived thy maker, ancient clock ! 

He in his cold grave sleeps ; but thy slight wheels 

Still do his bidding, yet his frailty mock, 

While o'er his name oblivion steals. 
Man ! so prodigal of pride and praise. 
Thy works survive thee ; dead machines perform 
Their revolution, while thy scythe-shorn days 
Yield thee a powerless prisoner to the worm. 
How darest thou sport with Time, while he 
Plunges thee darkly in Eternity ? 
Haste ! ere its awful wave engulf thy form. 
And make thy peace with Him, who rules above the 
storm. 



FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 59 



FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 

Autumn grows pallid, and his bounteous course 
Draws near its close, while with a feeble hand 
He languidly divides to those around 
The last love-tokens. 

A few brilliant wreaths — 
Woodbine and dahlia, tinged with berries red 
And twined with night-shade, and those snowy orbs 
That cluster mournful round their naked stems. 
He gives the children, and to older friends 
Pointeth the rich bequests of better days, 
Full granaries teeming with the golden ear, 
And o'er the fields the abundant stacks, where throng 
The quiet flocks and herds. 

Art satisfied, 
Thou of the plough and spade ? Full heir of all 
The year's perfected bounty, dost forget 
The bounteous season at whose voice the wain 



60 FRUITFUL AUTUMN. 

RoU'd heavy from the harvest ? Earth attests 
His benefactions. 

But behold he dies ! 
Winds sing his dirge, and the brown leaves bestrew 
His pathway to the tomb. Mourning, they say, 
"Remember how he clothed us in bright robes, 
Crimson and gold, even as that Jewish king. 
Who fell at Gilboa, deck'd with gorgeous pride 
Fair Israel's daughters." 

Then the grass-blades breathed 
A lowly sound, which he who bow'd his ear 
To their crisp foreheads, caught: — 

" He spared us long, 
Holding the frost-king back, that we might cheer 
Man with our simple beauty. Not in wrath. 
Like some who went before him, did he tread 
Upon our frailty. So we give him thanks." 

Then the glad birds, from their migration held 
By his warm smile, pour'd forth their grateful strain : 
"He gave us food, and with no stinted hand 
Scatter'd the seeds that pleased our callow young. 
And chained the howling blasts that ere the time 
Were wont to drive us from our nests away. 
For this we love him." 

And the bees replied: — 



FRUITFUL AUTUMN. fil 



"We love him also, for he spared the flowers." 
And the brisk squirrel mid his hoarded nuts, 
And the light cricket in its evening song, 
Yea, the poor gadding house-fly on the wall 
Pronounced him pitiful and kind to them. 

So, genial autumn, in thj grave with tears. 
As when a good man dies, we lay thee down. 
Covering thee with the verdure thou hast spared. 
Fresh sods and lingering flowers. 

Thou didst not trust 
Thy purposed goodness to another's hand. 
Cheating thy soul of the sweet bliss that flows 
From pure philanthropy, but day by day 
Aroused the labourer to his harvest-song. 
Gladdening the gleaner's heart, and o'er the board 
Of the poor man pouring such fruits as make 
His meagre children happy. 

Thus like thine. 
Friend whom we praise, may our own course be found, 
Not coldly trusting to a future race 
Our plans of charity to execute. 
When we are gone ; but marking every hour 
With some new deed of mercy, may we pass. 
Bland, blessed Autumn ! to our grave like thee, 
Mid the green memories of unnumber'd hearts 



62 THE OLD ELMS. 



THE OLD ELMS. 

I DO remember me 

Of two old elm-trees' shade, 
"With mosses sprinkled on their feet, 

Where my young childhood play'd, 
While the rocks above their head 

Look'd down so stern and gray. 
And the merry, crystal brooklet 

Went singing on its way. 

Thus, side by side, they flourish' d 

With intertwining crown. 
And through their broad, embracing arms 

The prying moon look'd down; 
And as I fondly linger' d there, 

A musing child, alone, 
I deem'd my secret heart she read 

From her far silver throne. 



THE OLD ELMS. 63 

I well remember me 

Of all their wealth of leaves, 
When Summer in her radiant loom 

The burning solstice weaves, 
And how with firm endurance 

They braved the adverse sky, 
Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet 

His country's wintry eye. 

Through varied climes I've wander' d. 

Where stranger streamlets run. 
Where flaunts the proud magnolia tree 

Beneath a southern sun, 
Or where the sparse and stinted pine 

Uplifts its sombre form. 
The vassal of the arctic cloud 

And of the polar storm ; 

Or where the lakes, like oceans, 

Their deep, blue waters spread. 
Or where sublime Niagara smites 

The admirer's soul with dread; 
I've seen the vast cathedral's pile, 

The pencil's wondrous art ; 
Yet still those old, green trees I bore 

Depictured on my heart. 



64 THE OLD ELMS. 



I sought my native village 

When years had held their swaj, 
But many a column of its trust 

Lay wreck'd in mouldering clay; 
The stately and the white-hair'd men 

Whose wisdom was its stay, 
For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice 

Responded, ^^ Where are they f 

I sought the thrifty matron 

Whose busy wheel was heard 
When early beams of morning 

Awoke the chirping bird ; 
Strange faces from her casement look'd, 

Strange voices fill'd her cot, 
And 'neath the very vine she train'd 

Her memory was forgot. 

I left a youthful matron, 

Her children round her knee; 
Those babes had changed to bearded men, 

And coldly look'd on me; 
While she, with all her bloom and grace, 

Did in the churchyard lie ; 
Yet still those towering elms upbore 

Their kingly canopy. 



THE OLD ELMS. 65 



Though we, who 'neath their shadow 

Pursued our childish plaj, 
Now find amid our sunnj locks 

The sprinkled tint of gray ; 
Though still the region of our birth 

Must many a change betide, 
Long may those sacred elms retain 

Their glorious strength and pride. 



66 TO-MORROW. 



TO-MORROW. 

Once when the traveller's coach o'er England's vales 
Paused at its destined goal, an aged crone 
Came from a neighbouring cottage, with such speed 
As weary years might make, and with red eye 
Scanning each passenger, in hurried tones 
Demanded, ^^ Has he come?" 

"No, not to-day ; 
To-morrow," was the answer. So, she turn'd, 
Raising her shrivel' d finger, with a look 
Half-credulous, half-reproachful, murmuring low, 
" To-morrow,'' and went homeward. 

A sad tale 
Was hers, they said. She and her husband shared, 
From early days, a life of honest toil. 
Content, though poor. One only son they had, 
Healthful and bright, and to their simple thought 
Both wise and fair. The father was a man 
Austere and passionate, who loved his boy 
With pride that could not bear to brook his faults 



10-MORROW. 67 



Nor patiently to mend tliem. As he grew 

Toward man's estate, the mother's readier tact 

Discern' d the change of character that meets 

With chafing neck the yoke of discipline, 

And humour'd it ; while to the sire he seem'd 

Still but a child, and so he treated him. 

When eighteen summers threw a ripening tinge 

O'er brow and cheek, the father, at some fault 

Born more of rashness than of turpitude, 

Struck him in wrath, and turn'd him from his door 

With bitter words. The youth, who shared too deep 

The fiery temper of his father's blood, 

Vow'd to return no more. 

The mother wept, 
And wildly pray'd her husband to forgive, 
And call him back. But he, with aspect stern, 
Bade her be silent, adding that the boy 
Was by her folly and indulgence spoil' d 
Beyond reclaim. And so she shuddering took 
The tear and prayer back to her inmost soul, 
And waited till the passion-storm should slack, 
And die away. Long was that night of wo. 
Yet mid its dreary watch, she thank' d her Grod 
When, after hours of tossing, blessed sleep 
Stole o'er the moody man. With quiet morn 
Relentings came, and that ill-smother' d pang 



68 TO-MORROW. 



With which an unruled spirit takes the lash 

Of keen remorse. Awhile with shame he strove, 

And then he bade the woman seek her son, 

If so she will'd. Alas ! it Avas too late. 

He was a listed soldier for a land 

Beyond the seas, nor would their little all 

Suffice to buy him back. 

'Twere long to tell 
How pain and loneliness and sorrow took 
Their Shylock-payment for that passion-gust. 
Or how the father, when his hour had come, 
Said, with a trembling lip and hollow voice, 
"Would that our boy were here !" or how the wife, 
In tenderest ministrations round his bed, 
And in her widow'd mourning, echoed still 
His dying words, " Oh ! that our boy were here." 

Years sped, and oft her soldier's letters came 
Replete with filial love, and penitence, 
And promise of return. But then, her soul 
Was wrung by cruel tidings, that he lay 
Wounded and sick in foreign hospitals. 
A line traced faintly by his own dear hand 
Relieved the torture. He was order'd home, 
Among the invalids. 

Joy, long unknown 



TO-MORROW. 69 



Rush'd through her desolate heart. To hear his voice, 
To gaze into his eyes, to part the locks 
On his pure forehead, to prepare his food, 
And nurse his feebleness, she ask'd no more. 

Again his childhood's long forsaken couch 
Put forth its snowy pillow, and once more. 
The well-saved curtain of flower'd muslin deck'd 
The lowly casement where he erst did love 
To sit and read. 

The cushion'd chair, that cheer'd 
His father's lingering sickness, should be his ; 
And on the little table at his side 
The hour-glass stood, whose ever-shifting sands 
Had pleased hira when a boy. 

The appointed morn 
Drew slowly on. The cheerful coals were heap'd 
In the small grate, and ere the coach arrived 
She with her throbbing heart stood eager there. 
" Has Willie come ?" 

Each traveller, intent 
On his own destination, heeded not 
To make reply. " Coachman ! is Willie there ?" 

"Willie? No ! no !" in a hoarse, hurried voice, 
Came the gruff answer. " Know ye not he's dead, 



70 TO-MORROW. 



Good woman ? Dead ! And buried on the coast, 
Four days ago." 

But a kind stranger mark'd 
How the strong surge of speechless agony 
Swept o'er each feature, and in pity said, 
'-'• Percliance hell come to-morrow." 

Home she went, 
Struck to the soul, and wept the livelong night. 
Insensible to comfort, and to all 
Who spake the usual words of sympathy. 
Answering nothing. 

But when day return' d. 
And the slight hammer of the cottage-clock 
Announced the hour at which her absent son 
Had been expected, suddenly she rose. 
And dress' d herself and threw her mantle on. 
And as the coachman check' d his foaming steeds. 
Stood eager by his side. " Is Willie there ? 
My Willie? Say!" 

While he, by pity school'd. 
Answer' d, " To-morrow.'' 

And though years have fled. 
And still her limbs grow weaker, and the hairs 
Whiter and thinner on her wrinkled brow. 
Yet duly, when the shrill horn o'er the hills 
Preludeth the approaching traveller, 



TO-MORROW. 71 



That poor, demented woman hurries forth 
To speak her only question, and receive 
That one reply. To-morrow. 

And on that 
Fragment of hope deferr'd, doth her worn heart 
Feed and survive. Lull'd by those syren words, 
" To-morrow" which from childhood's trustful dawn 
Have lured us all. When Reason sank 
In the wild wreck of Grief, maternal Love 
Caught at that empty sound, and clasp'd it close, 
And grappled to it, like a broken oar. 
To breast the shoreless ocean of despair. 



EVE. 



EVE. 

For the first time, a lovely scene 

Earth saw, and smiled, — 
A gentle form with pallid mien 

Bending o'er a new-born child: 
The pang, the anguish, and the wo 

That speech hath never told, 
Fled, as the sun with noontide glow 
Dissolves the snow-wreath cold, 
Leaving the bliss that none but mothers know; 
While he, the partner of her heaven-taught joy, 
Knelt in adoring praise beside his beauteous boy. 

She, first of all our mortal race, 
Learn'd the ecstasy to trace 
The expanding form of infant grace 
From her own life-spring fed ; 
To mark, each radiant hour. 
Heaven's sculpture still more perfect growing, 
More full of power ; 



EVE. 73 

The little foot's elastic tread, 
The rounded cheek, like rose-bud glowing. 
The fringed eye with gladness flowing, 
• As the pure, blue fountains roll; 

. And then those lisping sounds to hear, 

Unfolding to her thrilling ear 
The strange, mysterious, never-dying soul. 

And with delight intense 
To watch the angel-smile of sleeping innocence. 

No more she mourn'd lost Eden's joy, 
Or wept her cherish'd flowers, 
In their primeval bowers 
Bj wrecking tempests riven ; 
The thorn and thistle of the exile's lot 

She heeded not, 
So all-absorbing was her sweet employ 
To rear the incipient man,* the gift her God had given. 

And when his boyhood bold 

A richer beauty caught, 
Her kindling glance of pleasure told 

The incense of her idol-thought : 

* "I have gotten a man from the Lord." Gen. iv. 1. 



"4 EVE. 

Not for the born of clay 

Is pride's exulting thrill, 
Dark herald of the downward way, 
And ominous of ill. 
Even his cradled brother's smile 

The haughty first-born jealously survey'd, 
And envy mark'd the brow with hate and guile, 
In God's own image made. 

At the still twilight hour. 
When saddest images have power, 
Musing Eve her fears exprest : — 
"He loves me not; no more with fondness free 

His clear eye looks on me; 
Dark passions rankle there, and moody hate 
Predicts some adverse fate. 

Ah ! is this he, whose waking eye, 
Whose faint, imploring cry. 
With new and unimagined rapture blest ? 
Alas ! alas ! the throes his life that bought, 
Were naught to this wild agony of thought 
That racks my boding breast." 

So mourn'd our mother, in her secret heart. 
With presage all too true ; 



EVE. 76 

And often from the midnight dream would start, 
Her forehead bathed in dew; 
But say, what harp shall dare, 
Unless by hand immortal strung, 
What jDencil touch the hue, 
Of that intense despair 
Her inmost soul that wrung ! 
For Cain Avas wroth, and in the pastures green. 
Where Abel led his flock, mid waters cool and sheen, 
With fratricidal hand, that blameless shepherd slew 

Earth learn'd strong lessons in her morning prime, 
More strange than Chaos taught. 
When o'er contending elements the darkest veil was wrought; 
The poison of the tempter's glozing tongue, 
Man's disobedience and expulsion dire, 
The terror of the sword of fire 
At Eden's portal hung, 
Inferior creatures filled with savage hate, 
No more at peace, no more subordinate; 
Man's birth in agony, man's death by crime. 
The taste of life-blood, brother-spilt ; 
But that red stain of guilt 
Sent through her inmost heart such sickening pain, 

That in her path o'er ether's plain 
She hid her head and mourn'd, amid the planet-train. 



76 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER. 

Fair river ! not unknown to classic song, 
Which still in varying beauty roll'st along, 
When first thy infant fount is faintly seen, 
A line of silver mid a fringe of green, 
Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide, 
To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide, 
Or where, in azure mantle pure and free, 
Thou givest thy cool hand to the waiting sea. 

Though broader streams our sister realms may boast, 
More ancient cities, and a bolder coast. 
Yet from the bound where hoarse St. Lawrence roars 
To where La Plata laves the tropic shores. 
From where the arms of slimy Nilus shine 
To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine, 
Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark. 
Or sacred Ganges whelms her votaries dark, 
No brighter skies the eye of day may see, 
Nor soil more verdant, nor a race more free. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER. 77 

See ! where amid their cultured vales they stand, 
The generous offspring of a simple land ; 
Too rough for flattery, and all fear above, 
King, priest, and prophet mid the homes they love. 
On equal laws their anchor'd hopes are stay'd, 
By all interpreted, and all obey'd; 
Alike the despot and the slave they hate. 
And rise, firm columns of a happy state : 
To them content is bliss — and labour health, 
And knowledge power, and pure religion wealth. 

The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees 
His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze, 
His bleating flocks the shearer's care that need, 
His waving woods the wintry hearth that feed. 
His hardy steers that break the yielding soil, 
His patient sons who aid their father's toil, 
The ripening fields for joyous harvest drest, 
And the white spire that points a world of rest. 

His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear 
An equal burden in the yoke of care^ 
With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves, 
Or from the press the golden cheese receives : 
Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er. 
With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door, 



78 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 

Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, 
Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow; 
Then hale and cheerful to her home repair. 
When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care. 
Press the full udder for her children's meal, 
Rock the tired babe or wake the tuneful wheel. 

See, toward yon dome where village science dwells, 
When the church-clock its warning summons swells. 
What tiny feet the well-known path explore. 
And gayly gather from each rustic door. 
The new-wean'd child with murmuring tone proceeds, 
Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads, 
Transferr'd as burdens, that the housewife's care 
May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare. 
Light-hearted group ! who carol wild and high, 
The daisy cull, or chase the butterfly, 
Or by some traveller's wheel aroused from play. 
The stiff" salute with deep demureness pay. 
Bare the curl'd brow, and stretch the sunburnt hand. 
The home-taught homage of an artless land. 
The stranger marks, amid their joyous line. 
The little baskets whence they hope to dine, 
And larger books, as if their dexterous art 
Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part : — 



CONNECTICUT RIVER. 79 

Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 

To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame. 

Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride, 
Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride : 
From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung, 
Of prudent counsel, and persuasive tongue ; 
Unblenching souls, who ruled the willing throng, 
Their well-braced nerves by early labour strong ; 
Inventive minds, a nation's wealth that wrought; 
And white-hair' d sages, sold to studious thought 
Chiefs, whose bold step the field of battle trod ; 
And holy men, who fed the flock of God. 

Here, mid the graves by time so sacred made, 
The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade; 
He whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave. 
In ancient days, yon pure cerulean wave; 
Son of that Spirit, whom in storms he traced. 
Through darkness followed, and in death embraced, 
He sleeps an outlaw, mid his forfeit land. 
And grasps the arrow in his moulder' d hand. 

Here, too, our patriot sires with honour rest. 
In Freedom's cause who bared the valiant breast: 



80 CONNECTICUT RIVER. 



Sprang from their half-drawn furrow, as the cry 

Of threaten'd Liberty went thrilling by, 

Look'd to their God, and rear'd, in bulwark round, 

Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown 'd, 

And bade a monarch's thousand banners yield — 

Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field: 

Lo ! here they rest who every danger braved, 

Unmark'd, untrophied, mid the soil they saved. 

Round scenes like these doth warm remembrance glide, 

Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide 

On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore, 

Or ruder Erie's serpent-haunted shore. 

Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crown' d. 

Or red Missouri's unfrequented bound, 

The exiled man, when midnight shades invade, 

Couch'd in his hut, or camping on the glade. 

Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear, 

The boatman's song that charm'd his boyish ear; 

While the sad mother, mid her children's mirth. 

Paints with fond tears a parent's distant hearth, 

Or cheats her rustic babes with tender tales 

Of thee, blest river ! and thy velvet vales. 

Her native cot, where luscious berries swell. 

The village school, and Sabbath's tuneful bell, 

And smiles to see the infant soul expand 

With proud devotion for that father-land. 



BELL OF THE WRECK. 81 



BELL OF THE WRECK. 

The bell of the steamer Atlantic, lost in LongJsland Sound, Nov. 25th, 1846, being 
supported by portions of the wreck and the contiguous rock, continued to toll, swept by 
wind and surge, the requiem of the dead. 

Toll, toll, toll, 

Thou bell by billows swung, 
And night and day thy warning words 

Repeat with mournful tongue ! 
Toll for the queenly boat. 

Wreck'd on yon rocky shore; 
Sea-weed is in her palace-halls, 

She rides the surge no more ! 

Toll for the master bold, 

The high-soul' d and the brave, 
Who ruled her like a thing of life 

Amid the crested wave ! 
Toll for the hardy crew, 

Sons of the storm and blast. 
Who long the tyrant Ocean dared, 

But it vanquish'd them at last ! 



82 BELL OF THE WRECK. 

Toll for the man of God, 

Whose hallow'd voice of prayer 
Rose calm above the stifled groan 

Of that intense despair ! 
How precious were those tones 

On that sad verge of life, 
Amid the fierce and freezing storm, 

And the mountain-billows' strife ! 

Toll for the lover lost 

To the summon 'd bridal train ! 
Bright glows a picture on his breast. 

Beneath the unfathom'd main. 
One from her casement gazeth 

Long o'er the misty sea; 
He Cometh not, pale maiden, 

His heart is cold to thee ! 

Toll for the absent sire, 

Who to his home drew near, 
To bless a glad expecting group, 

Fond wife, and children dear ! 
They heap the blazing hearth, 

The festal board is spread, 
But a fearful guest is at the gate : 

Room for the sheeted dead ! 



BELL OF THE WRECK. RJ 

Toll for the loved and fair, 

The whelm' d beneath the tide, 
The broken harps around whose strings 

The dull sea-monsters glide ! 
Mother and nursling sweet, 

Eeft from the household throng ; 
There's bitter weeping in the nest 

Where breath'd their soul of song. 

Toll for the hearts that bleed 

'Neath misery's furrowing trace ! 
Toll for the hapless orphan left 

The last of all his race ! 
Yea, with thy heaviest knelf 

From surge to rocky shore. 
Toll for the living, not the dead. 

Whose mortal woes are o'er ! 

Toll, toll, toll, 

O'er breeze and billow free. 
And with thy startling lore instruct 

Each rover of the sea ; 
Tell how o'er proudest joys 

May swift destruction sweep, 
And bid him build his hopes on high, 

Lone Teacher of the deep ! 



8St WINTER AND AGE 



WINTER AND AGE. 

Gray Winter loveth silence. He is old, 
And liketh not the sporting of the lambs, 
Nor the shrill song of birds. It irketh him 
To hear the forest melodies, though still 
He giveth license to the ruffian winds. 
That, with black foreheads and distended cheeks, 
Mutter hoarse thftnders on their wrecking path. 

He lays his finger on the lip of streams, 
And they are ice ; and stays the merry foot 
Of the slight runlet, as it leapeth down. 
Terrace by terrace, from the mountain's head. 
He silenceth the purling of the brook. 
That told its tale in gentle summer's ear 
All the day long reproachless, and doth bid 
Sharp frosts chastise and chain it, till it shrink 
Abash'd away. 

He sits with wrinkled face. 
Like some old grandsire, ill at ease, who shuts 



WINTER AND AGE. 85 

The noisy trooping of tlie children out, 
And drawing nearer to the pleasant fire. 
Doth settle on his head the velvet cap, 
And bless his stars for quiet once again. 
Stern winter drives the truant fountain back 
To the dark caverns of the imprisoning earth, 
And deadeneth with his drifted snows the sound 
Of wheel and foot-tramp. 

Thus it is with man, 
When the chill winter of his life draws on. 
The ear doth loathe the sounds that erst it loved, 
Or, like some moody hermit, bar the door. 
Though sweetest tones solicit it in vain. 
The eye grows weary of the tarnish' d scenes 
And old wind-shaken tapestries of time. 
While all the languid senses antedate 
The Sabbath of the tomb. 

The echoing round 
Of giddy pleasures, where his heart in youth 
Disported eagerly, thej:'ushing tread 
Of the great, gorgeous world, are nought to him. 
Who, as he journey eth to a clime unknown. 
Would to the skirts of holy silence cling. 
And let all sounds and symphonies of earth 
Fall like a faded vestment from the soul. 



86 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

November came on, with an eye severe, 
And his stormy language was hoarse to hear, 
And the glittering garland of gold and red, 
Which was wreath'd for a while round the forest's head, 
With sudden anger he rent away. 
And all was cheerless and bare and gray. 

Then the houseless grasshopper told his woes. 
And the humming-bird sent forth a Avail for the rose, 
And the spider, that weaver of cunning so deep, 
Roll'd himself up in a ball to sleep; 
And the cricket his merry horn laid by 
On the shelf, with the pipe of the dragon-fly. 

Soon the birds were heard, at the morning prime, 
Consulting of flight to a warmer clime : 
" Let us go ! let us go !" said the bright-wing'd jay ; 
And his gay spouse sang from a rocking spray. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 87 

"I am tired to death of this humdrum tree; 
I'll go, if 'tis only the world to see !" 

"Will you go ?" ask'd the robin, "my only love ?" 
And a tender strain from the leafless grove 
Responded, " Wherever your lot is cast^ 
Mid summer skies or the northern blast, 
I am still at your side all your wanderings to cheer, 
Though dear is our nest in the thicket here." 

"I am ready to go," cried the querulous wren, 
"From the wind-swept homes of these northern men; 
My throat is sore, and my feet are blue ; 
I fear I have caught the consumption too." 
And the oriole told, with a flashing eye. 
How his plumage was dimm'd by this frosty sky. 

Then up went the thrush with a trumpet call. 
And the martins came forth from their cells on the wall, 
And the owlets peep'd out from their secret bower. 
And the swallows conversed on the old church-tower, 
And the council of blackbirds was long and loud. 
Chattering and flying from tree to cloud. 

"The dahlia is dead on her throne," said they, 
"And we saw the butterfly coid as clay; 



88 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Not a berry is found on the russet plains, 
Not a kernel of ripen 'd maize remains ; 
Every worm is hid — shall we longer stay 
To be wasted with famine ? Away ! away !" 

But what a strange clamour on elm and oak 
From a bevy of brown-coated mocking-birds broke ; 
The theme of each separate speaker they told, 
In a shrill report, with such mimicry bold. 
That the eloquent orators started to hear 
Their own true echo, so wild and clear. 

Then tribe after tribe, with its leader fair, 
Swept off through the fathomless depths of air. 
Who marketh their course to the tropics bright ? 
Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight ? 
Who guideth that caravan's trackless way, 
By the star at night and the cloud by day ? 

Some spread o'er the waters a daring wing. 
In the isles of the southern sea to sing. 
Or where the minaret, towering high, 
Pierces the blue of the Moslem sky, 
Or mid the harem's haunts of fear. 
Their lodgings to build, and their nurslings rear. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 89 

The Indian fig, with its arching screen, 
Welcomes them in to its vistas green, 
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree 
Thrill at the burst of, their melody. 
And the bulbul starts, mid his carol clear. 
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear. 

Oh wild wood-wanderers ! how far away 
From your rural 'homes in our vales ye stray; 
But when they are waked by the touch of Spring, 
Shall we see you again with your glancing wing. 
Your nests mid our household trees to raise. 
And fill our hearts with our Maker's praise ? 



90 PARTING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 



PARTING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 



Yon slender boy his bark hath launch'd 

On life's deceitful tide ; 
His balmy years of childhood o'er. 

He goes without a guide, 
Amid the stir and strife of men 

His devious course to run, 
The tempter and the snare to bide — 

God bless the widow's son. 

He turneth from the pleasant door, 

And from the garden fair, 
Where with his little spade he wrought 

Beneath a mother's care; 
He bears his head like manhood high, 

Yet tears their course will run. 
When on his stranger-bed he rests — 

God bless the widow's son. 



PARTING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 91 

Say ye he goeth forth alone 

To dare the eventful field ? 
JSTo, no ! a spell is round him thrown, 

Like adamantine shield, — 
A mournful mother's fervent prayer ! 

So, till his life is done, 
Till time and toil and change are o'er, 

God bless the widow's son. 



92 AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 



AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 

The summer-day declined o'er Edom's vales, ' 
As on, through rugged paths of lone Mount Hor, 
Three men went travelling slow. 

One, whose white beard 
O'erswept his reverend breast, moved painful on. 
And ever, as the ascent steeper grew, 
More wearily did lean on those who lent 
Their kindly aid. 

I see the mitred brow 
Of the High Priest of Israel, and anon, 
As the slant sun sends forth some brighter beam 
Through the sparse boughs and cones of terebinth, 
His dazzling breastplate like a rainbow gleams. 

He muses o'er the distant Past, and calls 
The buried years. Each, like unwilling ghost. 
Comes up with its dark scroll and glides away. 
Again the moan of Egypt meets his ear. 
As when her first-born died; the sounding surge 



AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 93 

Of the divided sea, enforced to leave 

Its ancient channels; the affrighted cry 

Of Israel at red Sinai's awful base ; 

Their murmurings and their mockings and their strife ; 

The sin at Meribah; the desert-graves 

Fed with a rebel race, — all rise anew, 

And, like the imagery of troubled dreams, 

Enwrap the spirit. 

With what earnest eye 
And mournful, from the topmost cliff he gazed. 
There, stretching round its base, like sprinkled snow 
Were Israel's tents, where lay in brief repose 
The desert-wearied tribes. 

Through distant haze 
Gleam'd Edom's roofs, with shadowy palm-trees blent; 
While farther still, like a black Stygian pool, 
The lone Dead Sea its sullen waters roll'd. 

He turn'd, and lo ! Mount Seir with frowning brow 
Confronted him. All solemn and severe 
Was its uncover'd forehead. Did it rise 
Like witness stern, to stir with vengeful hand 
The sleeping memories of forgotten things, 
That probe the conscience ? 

Once again he bent 
To mark the tents of Jacob. Fail' they seem'd, 



94 AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 

Amid lign-aloes and the cedars tall 
That God had planted ; — fairer than to him, 
That recreant prophet, who was yet to spy 
The chosen people, resting on their way, 
And by fierce Balak's side, from Peer's top 
Take up his parable, changing the curse 
Into a blessing. 

But to Aaron's eye, 
The haunts his feet must ne'er revisit more 
Put on new beauty. For the parting hour 
Unveils the love that like a stranger hides 
In the heart's depths. 

Was that his own sweet home, 
Its curtains floating, as the southern breeze 
Woo'd its white folds ? 

He pass'd his arm around 
His brother's shoulder, leaning heavily. 
And lower o'er his bosom droop'd his head. 
In that long, farewell look, which by no sound 
Reveal' d its import to the mortal ear. 



Anon his features wear a brightening tinge, 
And o'er his high anointed brow breaks forth 
A gleam of joy. Caught he a glorious view 
Of that eternal Canaan, fair with light. 



AARON ON MOUNT HOR. 95 

And water' d by the river of his God, 
Where was his heritage ? 

Or stole a strain 
From Miriam's timbrel, o'er the flood of death 
Urging him onward, through the last faint steps 
Of toil-worn life ? 

And now they reach the spot 
Where he had come to die. Strange heaviness 
Settled around his spirit. Then he knew 
That death's dark angel stretch'd a sable wing 
'Tween him and earth. The altar, and the ark, 
The unutter'd mysteries seen within the vail. 
Those deep-set traces of his inmost soul, 
Grew dim and vanish' d. 

So, with trembling hand, 
He hasted to unclasp the priestly robe 
And cast it o'er his son, and on his head 
The mitre place ; while, with a feeble voice. 
He bless' d, and bade him keep his garments pure 
From blood of souls. But then, as Moses raised 
The mystic breastplate, and that dying eye 
Caught the last radiance of those precious stones, 
By whose oracular and fearful light 
Jehovah had so oft his will reveal' d 
Unto the chosen tribes, whom Aaron loved, 
In all their wanderings — but whose promised land 



96 AARON ON MOUNT HOK. 

He might not look upon — lie sadlj laid 

His head upon the mountain's turfy breast, 

And with one prayer, half wrapp'd in stifled groans, 

Gave up the ghost. 

Steadfast beside the dead, 
With folded arms and face uplift to heaven 
The prophet Moses stood, as if by faith 
Following the sainted soul. No sigh of grief 
Nor sign of earthly passion mark'd the man 
Who once on Sinai's top had talked with God. 
— But the young priest knelt down, with quivering lip. 
And press' d his forehead on the pulseless breast, 
And, mid the gifts of sacerdotal power 
And dignity intrusted to his hand, 
Remembering but the father that he loved. 
Long with his filial tears bedew' d the clay. 



ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 97 



ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 



Lost! lost! lost! 

A gem of countless price, 
Cut from the living rock, 

And graved in Paradise ; 
Set round with three times eight 

Large diamonds, clear and bright. 
And each with sixty smaller ones, 

All changeful as the light. 

Lost — where the thoughtless throng 

In fashion's mazes wind, 
Where trilleth folly's song, 

Leaving a sting behind ; 
Yet to my hand 'twas given 

A golden harp to buy, 
Such as the white-robed choir attune 

To deathless minstrelsy. 



08 ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 

Lost! lost! lost! 

I feel all search is vain; 
That gem of countless cost 

Can ne'er be mine again ; 
I offer no reward, 

For till these heart-strings sever, 
I know that Heaven-intrusted gift 

Is reft away for ever. 

But when the sea and land 

Like burning scroll have fled, 
I'll see it in His hand 

Who judgeth quick and dead ; 
And when of scath and loss 

That man can ne'er repair. 
The dread inquiry meets my soul, 

What shall it answer there ? 






THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 99 



THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 



Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree, 
Dost thou carol thus to me, 
" Spring is coming ! Spring is here !" 
Say'st thou so, my birdie dear ? 
What is that, in misty shroud, 
Stealing from the darken'd cloud? 
Lo ! the snow-flakes' gathering mound 
Settles o'er the whiten'd ground, 
Yet thou singest, blithe and clear, 
" Spring is coming ! Spring is here !' 

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ? 
Winds are piping o'er the plain ; 
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky 
With a black and threatening eye ; 
Urchins, by the frozen rill. 
Wrap their mantles closer still ; 
Yon poor man, with doublet old, 
Doth he shiver at the cold ? 



100 THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 

Hath he not a nose of blue ? 
Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, 
Rosy wreaths and revelry : 
Hast thou woo'd some winged love 
To a nest in verdant grove ? 
Sung to her of greenwood bower, 
Sunny skies that never lower ? 
Lured her with thy promise fair 
Of a lot that knows no care ? 
Prithee, bird, in coat of blue. 
Though a lover, tell her true. 

Ask her if, when storms are long, 
She can sing a cheerful song ? 
When the rude winds rock the tree. 
If she'll closer cling to thee ? 
Then the blasts that sweep the sky, 
Unappall'd shall pass thee by ; 
Though thy curtain' d chamber show 
Siftings of untimely snow. 
Warm and glad thy heart shall be. 
Love shall make it Spring for thee. 



THE ARK AND DOVE. 101 



THE ARK AND DOVE. 

" Tell me a story — please," my little girl 
Lisp'd from her cradle. So I bent me down 
And told her how it rain'd, and rain'd, and rain'd. 
Till all the flowers were cover' d, and the trees 
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood, 
And people dwelt, a fearful deluge roll'd; 
Because the world was wicked, and refused 
To heed the words of God. But one good man, 
Who long had warn'd the wicked to repent, 
Obey, and live, taught by the voice of Heaven, 
Had built an ark ; and thither, with his wife 
And children, turn'd for safety. Two and two 
Of beasts and birds and creeping things he took. 
With food for all ; and when the tempest roar'd, 
And the great fountains of the sky poured out 
A ceaseless flood, till all besides were drown'd, 
They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure. 
And so the mighty waters bare them up. 
And o'er the bosom of the deep they sail'd 



102 THE ARK AND DOVE. 



For many days. But then a gentle dove 
'Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread 
Her lonely pinion o'er that boundless wave. 
All, all was desolation. Chirping nest, 
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw, 
For all the people of the earth were drown'd, 
Because of disobedience. Naught she spied 
Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky, 
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest. 
So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth, 
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance, 
Upon some wrecking billow floated by. 
With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought. 
The righteous man that wandering dove received, 
And to her mate restored, who, with sad moans. 
Had wonder'd at her absence. 

Then I look'd 
Upon the child, to see if her young thought 
Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye 
Was a glad listener, and the eager breath 
Of pleased attention curl'd her parted lip. 
And so I told her how the waters dried. 
And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds 
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove 
Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds 
Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired ark 



THE ARK AND DOVE. 103 

Upon the breezj breast of Ararat 
Reposed, and Noah with glad spirit rear'd 
An altar to his God. 

Since, many a time, 
"When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star, 
That little one is laid, with earnest tone. 
And pure cheek prest to mine, she fondly asks 
" The Ark and Dove." 

Mothers can tell how oft, 
In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up 
From a seal'd lip : and tenderly hath blent 
With the warm teaching of the sacred tale 
A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul, 
New in the rosy mesh of infancy 
Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world, 
Like that exploring dove, and find no rest, 
A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming hand 
May gently guide it to the ark of peace. 



104 THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 



THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 

"Cull me a flower," the Indian maid 

Unto her lover sigh'd, — 
" Such as thy noble spirit deems 

Fit for thy chosen bride. 

"And I will wear it on my brow 
When from this home I part, 
And enter to thy forest bower. 
Thy true love in my heart." 

Then he, who with Aeteon's stride 

Had erst that region trod. 
Now with bow'd head went searching o'er 

The flower-enamell'd sod. 

Unconscious of the unroused deer, 
Or the eagle's sunward throne, 

That haughty chieftain meekly roam'd, 
His thoughts on love alone. 



THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 105 

He cut the rich wild rose, that still 

A lingering radiance cast ; 
Though soon its falling petals told 

Its day of pride was past. 

He pluck' d the iris, deeply blue, 

The amaryllis bright. 
And hid their treasures through the day, 

But cast them forth at night. 

He bound the water-lily white 

Amid her lustrous hair, 
Yet found her black and flashing eye 

Required a gem more rare. 

At length, beside its mantling pool 

Majestic and serene. 
He saw the proud lobelia tower 

In beauty like a queen. 

That eve, the maiden's ebon locks 

Reveal' d its glowing power. 
Amid the simple nuptial rites. 

That graced the chieftain's bower. 



106 THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 



But she who by that stately flower 

Her lover's preference knew, 
"Was doom'd, alas ! in youthful hour 

To share its frailty too. 

For ere again its glorious bloom 

Rejoiced in Summer's eye, 
She droop' d amid her forest home — 

Her fount of life was dry. 

Then, as the ebbing pulse declined, 

Forth from her sacred nook. 
With swimming eye and trembling hand. 

Her bridal wreath she took. 

And bound its wither' d floral bells 

Around her temples pale, 
And faintly to her maidens spake, — 

For breath began to fail: — 

" Should the last death-pangs shake me sore, 
(For on they come with power,) 
Press closer in my ice-cold hand 
My husband's token-flower ; 



THE LOBELIA CARDINALIS. 107 

"And rear the turf-mound broad and high 
To span my lonely grave, 
That naught may sever from my locks 
The gift of love he gave ; 

" So, when the dance of souls goes forth 
Athwart the starry plain. 
He'll know me by his chosen flower, 
And make me his again." 



108 FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS. 



FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS. 



Go to your peaceful rest, 

Friends of a brighter hour, 
Jewels on youthful beauty's breast. 

Lights of the hall and bower. 
Well have ye borne your part, 

Fair children of the sky, 
We'll keep your memory in our heart 

When low in dust you lie. 

Your gladness in our joy. 

Your smile beside our way, 
Your gentle service round the bed 

Of sickness and decay. 
Your rainbow on the cloud, 

Your sympathy in pain — 
We'll keep the memory of your deeds 

Until we meet again. 



FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS. 109 

Rest from the blush of love, 

Rest from the blight of care, 
From the sweet nursing of your buds. 

And from the nipping air; 
Rest from the fever-thirst 

Of summer's noontide heat, 
From coiling worm, and rifling hand 

That vex'd your lone retreat. 

If e'er ye thrill'd with pride 

When the admirer knelt, 
Or on the lowly look'd with scorn 

Which man for man hath felt ; 
If through your bosoms pure 

Hath aught like evil flow'd, 
Since folly may with angels dwell, 

Rest from that painful load. 

But not with grief or fear 

Bow down the drooping head; 
See, in the chambers of your birth 

Your dying couch is spread. 
Go, strong in faith, ye flowers, 

Strong in your guileless trust 
With Spring's awakening trump to rise 

Above imprisoning dust. 

K 



no STORM. SAILS. 



STORM-SAILS. 

Out with thy storm-sails, for the blast is loud, 
And seas and skies commingle. 

Pleasant smiles, 
Fond cheering hopes, delightful sympathies. 
Story and song, the needle's varied skill. 
The shaded lamp, the glowing grate at eve, 
The page made vocal by a taste refined, 
Imparted memories, plans for others' good. 
These are a woman's storm-sails. Fain we'd keep 
Each one in readiness, whene'er the cloud 
Maketh our home our fortress, and debars 
Egress abroad. 

So, choose ye which to spread, 
My fair young lady. For the foot of youth 
Is nimblest mid the shrouds of social life, 
And readiest should its fairy hand unfurl 
The household banner of true happiness. 
What has thy brow to do with frowns ? thy heart 
With selfish lore ? as yet, so little school'd 



STORM-SAILS. Ill 



In the world's venal traffic. Make thine eye 
A cheering light-house to the voyager 
Wearied and worn. Shed blessed hope on all, 
Parent, fraternal group, or transient guest ; 
Nor let the toiling servant be forgot, . 
Who in the casket of remembrance stores 
Each word of praise. 

Mother, when tempests rage, 
Draw thy young children nearer. Let them share 
The intercourse that, while it soothes, instructs. 
And elevates the soul. Implant some germ 
Of truth, or tenderness, or holy faith, 
And trust the rain of heaven to water it. 
So shall those sweet, unfolding blossoms blend 
In future years thine image with the storm, 
Like the pure rainbow, with its glorious scroll 
Teaching of God. 

Scholar, and child of rhyme. 
This is thy holiday. No vexing fear 
Of interruption, and no idler's foot 
Shall mar thy revery. 

And while the flame 
Of blissful impulse nerves thy flying pen. 
Write on thy storm-sails deathless thoughts to guide 
Thy wind-swept brother to the port of peace. 



112 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

As hasting night o'er Scotia's plains 

Its murky mantle flung, 
And on its skirts with ruffian wrath 

A threatening tempest hung, 

Beside a farm-house door, a voice 
Rose o'er the howling blast, 
"Ah ! give us shelter from the storm, 
The darkness gathers fast. 

"We are not vagrants, God forbid! 
A dark and evil day, 
That made so many looms stand still, 
Hath taken our bread away. 

"And now, to Inverary's vales, 
In search of work we go. 
And thrice the setting sun hath seen 
Our way-worn course, and slow. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 113 

"My wife a nursing infant bears, 
Three younglings at her side, 
Weary and cold," — but churlish tones 
The earnest suit denied. 

" The humblest shed is all we ask, 
Your food we will not crave, 
And blessings on your head shall rest 
E'en till we find a grave. 

"Ah ! for our dear Redeemer's sake, 
Let us till morning stay," 
The harsh key grated in its ward, — 
The suppliant turn'd away. 

He held his hand before his face 

To bar the blinding sleet. 
And sorrow'd for those hearts that soon 

Such dread repulse must meet. 

" husband, you have linger'd long ; 

'Tis lonesome on the wold; 
Up, bairnies, to yon bonny house. 
And shield ye from the cold." 



114 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 



The wretched man bent shuddering down, 
Scarce kenn'd he what to sa,y, 

He could not find it in his heart 
To take her hope away. 

Yet o'er the moor, for many a league, 

All desolate and drear. 
He knew no other dwelling rose. 

The traveller's sight to cheer. 

" Jeanie, my poor and patient wife, 
God give thee strength to bear; 
'Neath yonder roof we may not bide, 
There is no mercy there." 

The weary woman groan'd aloud: 

"Not for myself I cry, 
But for the babe that feebly pines, 

Methinks its death is nigh." 

The little children sobb'd and wept, 
And, clinging round her, said, 
" -mother ! mother ! 'tis so long 
Since you have given us bread." 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 115 

The pitying father hush'd their grief, 

And drew them to his side, 
Till sleep, the angel, on their cheeks 

The trickling sorrow dried; 

Then spread his mantle o'er their breasts, 

Scant though it was and poor. 
And there mid driving snows they cower'd. 

Upon the dreary moor. 

Wild throbb'd his aching head, and wide 

His starting eyeballs strain. 
While through the darkness, lurid fires 

Seem'd flashing from his brain: 

Strange phantom-forms went gibbering by, 

And woke to fearful strife 
The thoughts that nerve the reckless hand 

Against the traveller's life. 

A new and dauntless strength he felt. 

Like giant in his prime. 
Such strength as drives the madden'd wretch 

To judgment ere his time. 



116 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 



But from the fountain of his soul 

Uprose a contrite prayer, 
That Heaven would crush the seeds of crime, 

And break the tempter's snare. 

Kind tones the awful revery broke, 

A human form drew near, 
An humble serving-man who mark'd 

Their misery severe ; 

One who the stern denial heard 
That check'd the plaint of need. 

And ventured to an outhouse rude 
The hapless group to lead. 

Oh poor man, who thyself hast quaked 

'Neath hunger-pang, and cold. 
Or felt the lashing of the winds 

Through garments thin and old; 

Far better canst thou feel for those 

Who bide misfortune's blast, 
Than Plenty's proud and pamper'd sons 

Who share the rich repast, 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 117 



Who, lapp'd in luxury, rejoice 

By fireside bright and warm. 
Or from their curtain 'd pillow list 

The howling of the storm. 

Kest to those wearied ones, how sweet ! 

E'en on that pauper-bed, 
The tatter' d blanket o'er them cast, 

The straw beneath them spread. 

But, at gray dawn, a piercing shriek ! 
Hark to that wild despair ! 
"My babe ! my babe ! she breathes no more !" 
Oh Spoiler ! art thou there ? 

That ghastly face the children mark'd 

As up from sleep they sprang, 
The thin blue fingers clench'd so close 

In the last hunger-pang. 

And pitiful it was to see 

How meagre want and .care 
Had set the wasting seal of years 

On brow so small and fair. 



118 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

Loud rose the wail of childliood's wo : 

"Will she not wake again, 
Our play-mate sister ? Never more ?" 

Keen was that transient pain. 

But whosoe'er hath chanced to hear 

A mother's cry of dread, 
Who, waking, on her bosom finds 

Her nursling cold and dead, — 

Its nerveless lip empower'd no more 

The fount of life to press. 
And gleeful smile and speaking eye 

Mute to the fond caress, — 

I say, whoe'er that sound hath heard 

Invade his lone retreat. 
Will keep the echo in his soul 

While memory holds her seat. 

The father started to her side. 

He spoke no. word of wo ; 
Words ! — would they dare in such an hour 
Their poverty to show ? 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. ng 

E'en manly nature reel'd to meet 

Such sudden shock of grief, — 
And drowning thought to trifles clung, 

In search of vain relief. 

The swallows, startled from their nests 

By pain's discordant sound. 
Among the rafters bare and brown 

Went circling round and round; 

And gazing on their aimless flight. 

He strove, with futile care. 
To parry for a little space 

The anguish of despair. 

But now, e'en hardest human hearts 

With sympathy were fraught. 
For late remorse the kindness woke 

That pity should have taught. 

There lay the babe so still and cold, 

Crush'd 'neath affliction's weight, 
For whom, perchance, their earlier care 

Had won a longer date ; 



120 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

But in the churchyard's grassy bound 

A narrow spot they gave, 
With tardy charity, that yields — 

Instead of bread — a grave. 

Sad tears of agonizing grief 
Bedew'd the darling's clay, 

And then that stricken-hearted group 
Pursued their mournful way. 

O'er Scotia's glens and mountains rude 
A toilsome path they wound, 

Or 'neath some cotter's lowly roof 
A nightly shelter found, 

Until, mid Inverary's vales. 
Once more a home they knew. 

And from the father's earnest hand 
The unresting shuttle flew. 

And though but scant the dole he earn'd, 

Yet prudence found a way 
To make it satisfy the needs 

Of each returning day. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 121 

So, to her parents' heavy lot 

Some filial aid to lend. 
The eldest, Bessie, left her home, 

A shepherd's flock to tend. 

Unceasing, for her helpless ones, 

The industrious mother strove. 
And season'd still the homeliest meal 

With sweet maternal love. 

Oft, when the quiet gloaming fell 

O'er heathery field and hill. 
And 'tween the daylight and the dark 

Her busier toils were still, 

She told them wild and stirring tales 

Of Scotia's old renown, 
And of the Bruce who bravely won, 

In evil times, the crown; 

Or sang, to rouse their patriot zeal. 

Some high, heroic stave ; 
Or whisper'd, through her swelling tears, 

Of their lost sister's grave ; 



i22 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

Or bade them duly, night and morn, 
Whene'er they knelt in prayer, 

To supplicate for Bessie dear 
Their God's protecting care. 

Yet joyous was the hour when they, 
With shout and gambol fleet, 

Went bounding from the cottage door 
The approaching sire to greet, 



Who twice a month, from distant scenes 

Of weary toil and care, 
Walk'd three times three long Scottish miles 

To spend his Sabbath there. 

And when, like lone and glimmering star, 

Across the heath he spied 
The rush-light in the window placed 

His homeward steps to guide, 

Methought a spirit's wing was his, 

From all obstruction free. 
Till by his Jeanie's side he sate. 

The wee things on his knee. 




" Yet joyous was the liou-i, wlieii tliey 
■With, shout, and gambol fleet, 
Went L oundiiig fiom the cottage dooi, 
Tlie appioaching sire to gieet. " 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 123 

There, while the humble fire of peat 

A flickering radiance threw, 
The oatmeal parritch had a zest 

The unloving never knew. 

And from the poor man's thrilling heart 

Such grateful praise arose, 
As they have never learn' d to breathe 

Who never shared his woes. 

Once, when the hallow'd day of rest 

Had pass'd serenely by. 
And evening with its sober vail 

Encompass' d earth and sky. 

Their cottage worship duly paid. 

While from the pallet near, 
The little sleepers' breathing fell 

Like music on their ear, 

The faithful pair with kind discourse 

Beguiled the gathering shade. 
As fitful o'er the darken'd wall 

The blinking ingle play'd. 



124 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

Then Jeanie many a soothing word 

To Willie's heart address' d, 
Her head upon his shoulder laid, 

His arm around her press'd. 

Much of their bairnies' weal she spake, 

And with confiding air 
Incited for their tender years 

A father's watchful care, 

With tearful eye and trembling tone, 

As one about to trust 
Fond treasures to another's hand. 

And slumber in the dust. 

Her heavenly hopes, she said, were bright, 

But mortal life was frail, 
And something, whispering, warn'd her soul 

That soon her strength might fail. 

" Oh, Willie dearest ! ne'er before 
I've stay'd thy lingering tread, 
For well I know 'tis hard to take 
The time that earns our bread. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 135 

' But now one single day I ask, 

For then, the weight that bow'd 
My spirit with its presage dire, 

May prove an April cloud." 

He stay'd, to mark the fearful pang 

That hath not yet been told, 
To see the livid hues of death 

The rigid brow unfold. 

He stay'd, to find all help was vain, 

Ere the next evening-tide, 
And then to lay her in the grave, 

Her new-born babe beside. 

Her new-born babe ! With her it died. 

And in the white shroud's fold, 
Fast by her marble breast 'twas seen, 

A blossom crush' d and cold. 

Oh wounded and forsaken man ! 

Whom mocking Hope doth flee, 
The lingering luxury of grief 

Is not for such as thee. 



126 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

Stern Toil doth summon thee away, 
And thou the call must hear, 

As the lone Arab strikes his tent 
To roam the desert drear. 

He closed the pleasant room where late 
His cheerful hearth had burn'd, 

And to the waiting landlord's hand 
The household key return'd. 

And to a pitying neighbour's door 
His youngest nursling led, 

Too weak to try the weary road 
It was his lot to tread, — 

With earnest words bespoke her care, 
Which he would well repay, 

Then bless'd the poor, unconscious boy, 
And sadly turn'd away. 

With wondering eyes, the stranger-child 
The unwonted scene survey'd. 

And to the darkest corner shrank, 
Bewilder'd and afraid. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 137 

From thence, escaping to his home 

With bosom swelling high, 
Uplifted, as he fled away, 

A loud and bitter cry ; 

And wildly call'd his mother's name, 

And press 'd the unyielding door, 
And breathless listen'd for the voice 

That he must hear no more. 

And, then, the holy hymn she taught 

He lisp'd with simple wile, 
As if that talisman were sure 

To win her favouring smile. 

But when all efforts fruitless proved, 

Exhausted with his moan. 
The orphan sobb'd himself to sleep 

Upon the threshold-stone. 

Even passing travellers paused to mark 

A boy, so young and fair. 
Thus slumbering on a stony bed 

Amid the nipping air, — 



128 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

A boy, whose flaxen curls, the care 

Of matron love disclose, 
Though sorrow's pearl-drops sprinkled lay 

Upon his cheeks of rose. 

But onward, toward his lot of toil 
With spirit bow'd and bent, 

Wee Willie walking by his side, 
The widow' d father went. 

Silent they journey'd, hand in hand, 
While from its cloud-wrapp'd head 

A shower of chill and drizzling mist 
The bleak Benachie shed. 

Then, from the beaten track they turn'd 

A broken path to wind. 
The lonely spot where Bessie dwelt, 

In a far glen to find. 

They wander'd long o'er strath and brae, 
While blasts autumnal sweep. 

Before their own poor girl they spied 
Tending her snowy sheep. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 129 

Up toward the mountain side she gazed, 

Intent, yet sad of cheer. 
Expecting still, from hour to hour, 

To greet her mother dear. 

Alas ! this was the appointed day 

On which that tender friend 
Had promised with her loving child 

A little time to spend. 

Warm stockings, that her hand would knit 

From fleecy wool, to bring ; 
Perchance, a broader plaid, to shield 

From coming winter's sting. 

As bounds the glad and nimble deer. 
She flew, their steps to meet ; 
" Father ! and Willie ! welcome here ! 
But where's my mother sweet?" 

" Speak to her, Willie ! Kiss her cheek ! 
That grows so pale and white ; 
Fain would I turn away awhile, 
I cannot bear the sight. 

9 



130 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

" sob not so, my precious son ! 
Speak kindly words, and say 
Why your lost mother does not come, 
And how she sleeps in clay." 

So, clasp 'd within each other's arms, 

Upon the heather dry, 
Beside a clear and rippling brook 

That crept unheeded by, 

They told their tale of wo, and found 

In sympathy relief; 
But he, the deeper mourner, sank. 

In solitary grief. 

And nought escaped his utterance there, 
While kneeling on the sod. 

Save her loved name, his poor lost wife, 
And broken cries to God. 

Nor long the kindred tear to pour 
That smitten group might stay, 

For meagre Want with tyrant frown 
Were beckoning them away. 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 131 

"Oh, put your trust in God, mj child," 
The parting father said, 
Then kiss'd his daughter's trembling lips, 
And on his journey sped. 

And sometimes, when her task bore hard, 
It seem'd a mother's sigh, 
" Oh, put your trust in God, my child," 
Came breathing from the sky. 

Oh ye, who see the suffering poor 

With countless ills opprest, 
Yet on in lordly chariots roll, 

Nor heed their sad request ; — 

Who mark the unrequited toil 

That with its mountain weight 
Doth crush them hopeless to the dust, 

Yet leave them to their fate ; 

Think of the hour, when forth, like theirs, 

Your uncloth'd soul must fleet. 
Its last and dread account to bide 

Before the Judge's seat. 



132 THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 

And if to feed the hungering poor, 

And be the orphan's stay, 
Shall be remember'd mid the ire 

Of that terrific day, 

Haste ! ope the hand to mercy's deed, 

The heart to sorrow's prayer, 
And bid your lowly brother plead 

For your forgiveness there. 

NOTE. 

" strange to say, on first becoming aware of the bereavements of that terrible night, 
I sate for some minutes gazing upward at the fluttering and wheeling morements of a 
party of swallows, our fellow-lodgers, that bad been disturbed by our unearthly outcry." — 
Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver. 

This poem is almost a literal version of circumstances related in a book, with the above 
title, published in England recently, and written by WUliam Thom, a Scotch weaver and 
poet "Its objuct," says the author, "is to impart to one portion of the community 
glimpses of what is going on in another." 

In our own happy land, the labouring poor have no idea of the distress which he thus 
simply yet forcibly depicts. It occurred soon after six thousand looms were stopped in 
the region of Dundee, and just before William Thom, with his wife and four little ones, 
left their home at Newlyte, in search of the means of subsistence at Inverary, as related 
in the preceding stanzas. 

" It had been a stiff winter and an unkindly spring ; but I will not expatiate on six 
human lives maintained on five shillings weekly, on babies prematurely thoughtful, on 
comely faces withering, on desponding youth, and too quickly declining age. I will de- 
scribe one morning of modified starvation at Newlyte, and then pass on. 

" Imagine a cold, dreary forenoon. It is eleven o'clock, but our little dwelling shows 
none of the signs of that time of day. The four children are still asleep. There is a bed- 
cover hung before the window, to keep all within as much like night as possible. The 



THE SCOTTISH WEAVER. 133 



mother sits beside the bed of her children, to lull them hack to sleep, when either shall 
show any inclination to wake. For this there is a cause. Our weekly five shillings have 
not come as was expected, and the only food in the house consists of a handful of oatmeal 
saved from the supper of last night. Our fuel is also exhausted. My wife and I were 
conversing in sunken whispers ahout making an attempt to cook the handful of meal, 
when the youngest child awoke, beyond the mother's power to hush it again to sleep. It 
finally broke out into a steady scream, which, of course, rendered it impossible to keep the 
rest in a state of unconsciousness. Face after face sprang up, each little one exclaiming, 
•Oh mother! mother! give me a piece.' How weak a word is sorrow, to apply to the 
feelings of myself and my wife on that dreary day I" 



134 NIAGARA. 



NIAGARA. 

Flow on for ever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
TJnfathom'd and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him 
Eternally — bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence — and upon thine altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise. 

Earth fears to lift 
The insect-trump that tells her trifling joys 
Or fleeting triumphs, mid the peal sublime 
Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks 
Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves 
Retire abash'd. For he hath need to sleep. 
Sometimes, like a spent labourer, calling home 
His boisterous billows, from their vexing play. 



NIAGARA. 135 



To a long dreary calm : but thy strong tide 
Faints not, nor e'er with failing heart forgets 
Its everlasting lesson, night nor day. 
The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth, 
Heard thy hoarse anthem mixing with their song 
Jehovah's name; and the dissolving fires. 
That wait the mandate of the day of doom 
To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscribed 
Upon thy rocky scroll. 

The lofty trees 
That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore 
Of the too fitful winds ; while their young leaves 
Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray, 
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds, 
How bold they venture near, dipping their wing 
In all thy mist and foam. Perchance 'tis meet 
For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir 
Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud 
Unblamed, or warble at the gate of heaven 
Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems 
Scarce lawful with our erring lips to talk 
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to trace 
Thine awful features with our pencil's point 
Were but to press on Sinai. 

Thou dost speak 
Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop 



136 NIAGARA. 

From his right-hand, — bidding the soul that looka 
Upon thy fearful majesty be still, 
Be humbly wrapp'd in its own nothingness, 
And lose itself in Him. 



THE CORAL INSECT. 137 



THE CORAL INSECT. 



Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, 
Who build on the tossing and treacherous main; 
Toil on ! for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
With your sand-based structures and domes of rock; 
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 
And your arches spring up through the crested wave ; 
Ye're a puny race thus boldly to rear 
A fabric so vast in a realm so drear. 

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone; 
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring. 
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 
The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd, 
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold. 
The sea-snatch' d isle is the home of men, 
And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 



138 THE CORAL INSECT. 

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
There are snares enough on the tented field; 
Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield; 
There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up; 
There's a poison drop in man's purest cup ; 
There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath : 
And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 

With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright; 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold ; 
And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see 
The mariner's bed mid their halls of glee : 
Hath earth no graves ? that ye thus must spread 
The boundless sea with the thronging dead ? 

Ye build ! ye build ! but ye enter not in, 
Like the tribes whom the desert devour' d in their sin ; 
From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your wearied eye. 
As the cloud-crown'd pyramids' founders sleep 
Noteless and lost in oblivion deep, 
Ye slumber unmark'd mid the watery plain, 
While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 



THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 139 



THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 

Group after group are gathering, such as prest 

Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid 
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, 

Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade; 
Group after groiip glide on with noiseless tread 

And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, 
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, 

And holy words their ruby lips repeat. 
Oft with a chasten'd glance, in modulation sweet. 

Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows 

Wan poverty hath done the work of care ; 
Look up, ye sad ones ! — 'tis your Father's house 

Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; 
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, 

And watch the gaudier forms that gayly rove, 
And deem perchance, mistaken as you are. 

The "coat of many colours" proves His love, 
Whose sign is in the heart and whose reward above. 



140 THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 

And je, blest labourers in this humble sphere, 

To deeds of saint-like charity inclined. 
Who from your cells of meditation dear 

Come forth to guide the weak, untutor'd mind- 
Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 

Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain, — 
Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 

The rest of earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain 
A Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain. 




" No-when the groTes 
In fleeting colours, wiote tKeii o'wii decay 
AndleaTes fell eddying mtlie sltarpened blast 
That sang then diige,! 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 14- 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

When was the red man's summer ? 

When the rose 
Hung its first "banner out ? When the gray rock, 
Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed ? 
Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks 
Started to see the proud lobelia glow 
Like living flame ? When through the forest gleam' d 
The rhododendron ? or the fragrant breath 
Of the magnolia swept deliciously 
O'er the half laden nerve? 

No. When the groves 
In fleeting colours wrote their own decay, 
And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen' d blast 
That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed 
The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, 
Heavy of wing and fearful ; when, with heart 
Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd 
The signs of coming winter : then began 



142 THE INDIAN SUMMER. 



The Indian's joyous season.* Then the haze, 

Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, 

Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. 

The quiet rivers, that were wont to hide 

'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd 

By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept, 

While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky 

Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged 

In the same element. Slowly the sun. 

And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved. 

And then it took upon its parting wing 

A rainbow glory. 

Gorgeous was the time, 
Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee, 
Our brother hunter, but to us replete 
With musing thoughts in melancholy train. 
Our joys, alas ! too oft were wo to thee. 
Yet ah, poor Indian ! whom we fain would drive 
Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands, 
The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown. 
And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 



* An ajred chief said to our ancestors, " The white man's summer is past and gone, 
but that of the Indian begins when the leayes fall." 



THE HERMIT OE THE FALLS. 



143 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 

It was the leafy month of June, 
And joyous Nature, all in tune, 

With wreathing buds was drest, 
As toward Niagara's fearful side 

A youthful stranger prest. 
His ruddy cheek was blanch'd with awe. 
And scarce he seem'd his breath to draw. 

While, bending o'er its brim, 
He mark'd its strong, unfathom'd tide. 

And heard its thunder-hymn. 

His measured week too quickly fled, 
Another, and another sped. 
And soon the summer rose decay'd. 
The moon of autumn sank in shade. 
Years fill'd their circle brief and fair, 
Yet still the enthusiast linger 'd there. 



144 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 

Till winter hurl'd its dart; 
For deeply round his soul was wove 
A mystic chain of quenchless love, 

That would not let him part. 
When darkest midnight veil'd the sky, 
You'd hear his hasting step go by. 
To gain the bridge beside the deep, 
That thread-like o'er the surge 
Shot, where the wildest torrents leap. 

And there, upon its awful verge. 
His vigil lone to keep. 

And when the moon, descending low, 
Hung on the flood that gleaming bow, 
Which it would seem some angel's hand 
With heaven's own pencil tinged and spann'd. 
Pure symbol of a better land, 
He, kneeling, poured in utterance free 
The eloquence of ecstasy ; 
Though to his words no answer came, 
Save that One, Everlasting Name, 
Which, since Creation's morning broke, 
Niagara's lip alone hath spoke. 

When wintry tempests shook the sky. 
And the rent pine-tree hurtled by, 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 145 

Unblenching mid the storm he stood, 
And mark'd sublime the wrathful flood, 
While wrought the frost-king fierce and drear, 
His palace mid those cliffs to rear, 
And strike the massy buttress strong. 
And pile his sleet the rocks among, 
And wasteful deck the branches bare 
With icy diamonds, rich and rare. 

Nor lack'd the hermit's humble shed 

Such comforts as our natures ask 

To fit them for their daily task, — 
The cheering fire, the peaceful bed, 
The simple meal in season spread : 
While by the lone lamp's trembling light, 
As blazed the hearth-stone clear and bright, 

O'er Homer's page he hung, 
Or Maro's martial numbers scann'd. 
For classic lore of many a land 

Flow'd smoothly o'er his tongue. 
Oft, with rapt eye and skill profound, 
He woke the entrancing viol's sound. 

Or touch'd the sweet guitar. 
For heavenly music deign' d to dwell 
An inmate in his cloister'd cell, • 

As beams the solemn star 



116 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 



All night, with meditative eyes, 

Where some lone rock-bound fountain lies. 

As through the groves with quiet tread, 

On his accustom'd haunts he sped, 

The mother-thrush, unstartled, sung 

Her descant to her callow young. 

And fearless o'er his threshold prest 

The wanderer from the sparrow's nest; 

The squirrel raised a sparkling eye. 

Nor from his kernel cared to fly 

As pass'd that gentle hermit by; 

No timid creature shrank to meet 

His pensive glance, serenely sweet ; 

From his own kind, alone, he sought 

Tne screen of solitary thought. 

Whether the world too harshly prest 

Its iron o'er a yielding breast. 

Or taught his morbid youth to prove 

The pang of unrequited love. 

We know not, for he never said 

Aught of the life that erst he led. 

On Iris isle, a summer bower 
He twined with branch, and vine, and flower, 
And there he mused, on rustic seat, 
Unconscious of the noonday heat. 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 147 

Or 'neath the crystal waters lay, 
Luxuriant, in tlie swimmer's play. 
Yet once, the whelming flood grew strong, 
And bore him like a weed along, 
Though, with convulsive throes of pain 
And heaving breast, he strove in vain ; 
Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide, 
Lone as he lived, the hermit died. 

On, by the rushing current swept, 
The lifeless corse its voyage kept. 
To where, in narrow gorge comprest, 
The whirling eddies never rest, 
But boil with wild tumultuous sway, 
The maelstrom of Niagara. 
And there, within that rocky bound, 
In swift gyrations round and round, 

Mysterious course it held; 
Now springing from the torrent hoarse, 
Now battling as with maniac force, 

To mortal strife compell'd. 

Right fearful 'neath the moonbeam bright, 
It was to see that brow so white. 

And mark the ghastly dead 
Leap upward from his torture-bed. 



148 THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 

As if in passion-gust, 
And tossing wild with agony, 
To mock the omnipotent decree 

Of dust to dust. 

At length, where smoother waters flow, 
Emerging from the gulf below. 
The hapless youth they gain'd, and bore 
Sad to his own forsaken door. 
There watch' d his dog with straining eye. 
And scarce would let the train pass by. 

Save that, with instinct's rushing spell. 
Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, 
And stiff and stony form, he knew 

The master he had loved so well. 

The kitten fair, whose graceful wile 
So oft had won his musing smile. 
As at his foot she held her play. 
Stretch' d on his vacant pillow lay. 
While strew'd around, on board and chair, 

The last pluck'd flower, the book last read, 

The ready pen, the page outspread, 
The water-cruse, the unbroken bread, 

Reveal'd how sudden was the snare 
That swept him to the dead. 



THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. 



149 



And so he rests in foreign earth, 
Who drew mid Albion's vales his birth; 
Yet let no cynic phrase unkind 
Condemn that youth of gentle mind, 
Of shrinking nerve and lonely, heart, 
And letter'd lore and tuneful art. 

Who here his humble worship paid, 
In that most glorious temple-shrine. 
Where to the Majesty divine 

Nature her noblest altar made. 

No, blame him not, but praise the Power 
Who in the dear, domestic bower, 
Hath given you firmer strength to rear 
The plants of love with toil and fear. 
The beam to meet, the blast to dare. 
And like a faithful soldier bear. 
Still with sad heart his requiem pour, 
Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar, 
Nor grudge one tear of pitying gloom 
To dew that sad enthusiast's tomb. 



150 THE BUTTERFLY. 



THE BUTTERFLY. 

A BUTTERFLY bask'd on a baby's grave 
Where a lily had chanced to grow : 
"Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye, 
When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
Must sleep in the churchyard low?" 

Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air, 

And spoke from its shining track: 
" I was a worm till I won my wings, 
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings : 

Wouldst thou call the bless'd one back ?" 



SOLITUDE. 151 



SOLITUDE. 

Deep solitude I sought. There was a dell 
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, 
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. 

Thither I went, 
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount 
For which it long had thirsted mid the strife 
And fever of the world. I thought to be 
There without witness. But the violet's eye 
Look'd up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled. 
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek 
There were glad voices too. The garrulous brook, 
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
Its history. Up came the singing breeze, 
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
Responsive, every one. E'en busy life 
Woke in that dell. The dexterous spider threw 
From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. 
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 



153 SOLITUDE. 



The rifled grain, toil'd toward her citadel. 
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
While from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
Sang to her nurslings. 

Yet I strangely thought 
To be alone and silent in thy realm. 
Spirit of life and love ! It might not be ! — 
There is no solitude in thy domains, 
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief. 
Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
Without a witness. E'en the desert place 
Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams 
Are social and benevolent ; and he 
Who holdeth converse in their language pure, 
Roaming among them at the cool of day. 
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest, 
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 



THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 153 



THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 



Thou dost not dream, my little one, 

How great the change must be, 
These two years, since the morning sun 

First shed his beams on thee. 
Thy little hands did helpless fall, 

As with a stranger's fear, 
And a faint wailing cry was all 

That met thy mother's ear. 

But now the dictates of thy will 

Thine active feet obey. 
And, pleased, thy busy jfingers still 

Among thy playthings stray; 
And thy full eyes delighted rove 

The pictured page along, 
And, lisping to the heart of love. 

Thy thousand wishes throng. 



154 THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. 

Fair boy ! the wanderings of thy way 

It is not mine to trace, 
Through buoyant youth's exulting day, 

Or manhood's bolder race : 
What discipline thy heart may need, 

What clouds may veil thy sun, 
The eye of God alone can read — 

And let his will be done. 

Yet might a mother's prayer of love 

Thy destiny control ; 
Those boasted gifts that often prove 

The ruin of the soul, 
Beauty and fortune, wit and fame, 

For thee it would not crave. 
But tearful urge a fervent claim 

To joys beyond the grave. 

! be thy wealth an upright heart, 

Thy strength the sufferer's stay, 
Thine early choice that better part 

Which cannot fade away; 
Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire, 

Thy friends the men of peace, 
Thy heritage an angel's lyre 

When earthly changes cease. 



THE DEAD HORSEMAN. isj 



THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 



Occasioned by reading the manner of conveying a young man to burial in the moim> 
tainous region about Vettie's Giel, in Norway. 



Who's riding o'er the Giel so fast, 

Mid the crags of Utledale ? 
He heeds not cold nor storm nor blast ; 

But his cheek is deadly pale. 

A fringe of pearl from his eyelash long 

Stern winter's hand hath hung ; 
And his sinewy arm looks bold and strong, 

Though his brow is smooth and young. 

Kound his marble forehead, in clusters bright. 

Is wreathed his golden hair; 
His robe is of linen, long and white, 
Though a mantle of fur scarce could 'bide the blight 

Of his keen and frosty air. 



156 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 

God speed thee now, thou horseman bold ! 

For the tempest awakes in wrath; 
And thy stony eye is fix'd and cold 

As the glass of thine icy path. 

Down, down the precipice wild he breaks, 

Where the foaming waters roar ; 
And his way up the cliff of the mountain takes, 

Where man never trod before. 

No checking hand to the rein he lends, 

On slippery summits sheen ; 
But ever and aye his head he bends 

At the plunge in some dark ravine. 

Dost thou bow in prayer to the God who guides 

Thy course o'er such pavement frail? 
Or nod in thy dream on the steep, where glides 
The curdling brook with its slippery tides, 

Thou horseman so young and pale ? 
• 
Swift, swift o'er the breast of the frozen streams. 

Toward Lyster Church he hies. 
Whose holy spire mid the glaciers gleams. 

Like a star in troubled skies. 



THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 157 

Now stay, thou ghostly traveller — stay : 

Why haste in such mad career ? 
Be the guilt of thy bosom as dark as it may, 

'Twere better to purge it here. 

On, on ! like the winged blast he wends, 
Where moulder the bones of the dead — 

Wilt thou stir the sleep of thy buried friends, 
With thy courser's tramping tread ? 

At a yawning pit, whose narrow brink 

Mid the swollen snow was grooved, 
He paused. The steed from that chasm did shrink, 

But the rider sate unmoved. 

Then down at once, from his lonely seat. 

They lifted the horseman pale. 
And laid him low in that drear retreat. 
And pour'd, in dirg^-like measure sweet. 

The mournful funeral wail. 

Bold youth, whose bosom with pride had glow'd 

In a life of toil severe — 
Didst thou scorn to pass to thy last abode 

In the ease of the slothful bier ? 



158 THE DEAD HORSEMAN. 



Must thy own good steed, which thy hands had drest, 

In the fulness of boyhood's bliss, 
By the load of thy lifeless limbs be prest, 

On a journey so strange as this ? 

Yet still to the depth of yon rock-barr'd dell, 
Where no ray from heaven hath glow'd. 

Where the thundering rush of the Markefoss fell, 

The trembling child doth point and tell 
How that fearful horseman rode. 



TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 159 



TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 

Would they swept cleaner ! 

Here's a littering shred 
Of linen left behind — a vile reproach 
To all good housewifery. Right glad am I 
That no neat lady, train' d in ancient times 
Of pudding-making, and of sampler-work, 
And speckless sanctity of household care, 
Hath happen'd here to spy thee. She, no doubt. 
Keen looking through her spectacles, would say, 
" This comes of reading booJcs." Or some spruce beau, 
Essenced and lily-handed, had he chanced 
To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be, 
" This comes of writing poetry." — Well, well. 
Come forth, offender ! — hast thou aught to say ? 
Canst thou, by merry thought or quaint conceit. 
Repay this risk that I have run for thee ? 

Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself 

Into thine elements. I see the stalk 

And bright blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread 



160 TO A SHKED OF LINEN. 

That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretch'd 
His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom 
Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales. 
But, lo ! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail 
To crush thy hones unpitying, and his wife, 
With kerchief'd head and eye hrimfull of dust, 
Thy fibrous nerves with hatchel-tooth divides. 

1 hear a voice of music — and behold ! 

The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel. 
While by her side the rustic lover sits. 
Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count 
The mass of skeins, which, hanging on the wall, 
Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thought 
(For men have deeper minds than women — sure !) 
Is calculating what a thrifty wife 
The maid will make ; and how his dairy shelves 
Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese. 
Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg 
And pot of butter to the market borne. 
May, transmigrated, on his back apj^ear 
In new thanksgiving coats. 

Fain would I ask. 
Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel, 
By sofa and piano quite displaced. 
Why (lost thou banish from thy parlour hearth 
That old Hygeian harp, whose magic ruled 



TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 161 

Dyspepsia, as the minstrel-slieplierd's skill 
Exorcised Saul's ennui? There was no need, 
In those good times of callisthenics, sure ; 
And there was less of gadding, and far more 
Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong 
In industry, and bearing such rare fruit 
As wealth might never purchase. 

But come back, 
Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop 
In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost 
The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot 
When the rough battery of the loom had stretch'd 
And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun 
Thy brown complexion bleach' d? 

Methinks I scan 

Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out 

A defunct pillow-case. Did the trim guest. 

To the best chamber usher'd, e'er admire 

The snowy whiteness of thy freshen' d youth. 

Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe 

Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee ? 

Say, hast thou listen'd to the sick one's moan. 

When there was none to comfort ?— or shrunk back 

From the dire tossings of the proud man's brow ? 

Or gather' d from young beauty's restless sigh 

A tale of untold love ? 

11 02 



162 TO A SHRED OF LINEN. 

Still close and mute ! — 
Wilt tell no secrets, ha? — Well then, go down, 
With all thy churl-kept hoard of curious lore, 
In majesty and mystery, go down 
Into the paper-mill, and from its jaws, 
Stainless and smooth, emerge. Happy shall be 
The renovation, if on thy fair page 
Wisdom and truth their hallow'd lineaments 
Trace for posterity. So shall thine end 
Be better than thy birth, and worthier bard 
Thine apotheosis immortalize. 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 1G3 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 

How beautiful it stands, 

Behind its elm-tree's screen, 
With simple attic cornice crown' d, 

All graceful and serene ! 
Most sweet, yet sad, it is 

Upon yon scene to gaze. 
And list its inborn melody. 

The voice of other days. 

For there, as many a year 

Its varied chart unroll'd, 
I hid me in those quiet shades, 

And call'd the joys of old; 
I call'd them, and they came 

When vernal buds appear' d. 
Or where the vine-clad summer bower 

Its temple-roof uprear'd; 



164 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 

Or where the o'erarching grove 

Spread forth its copses green, 
While eyebright and asclepias rear'd 

Their untrain'd stalks between, 
And the squirrel from the boughs 

His broken nuts let fall, 
And the merry, merry little birds 

Sang at his festival. 

Yon old forsaken nests 

Returning spring shall cheer, 
And thence the unfledged robin breathe 

His greeting wild and clear; 
And from yon clustering vine, 

That wreathes the casement round. 
The humming-bird's unresting wing 

Send forth a whirring sound; 

And where alternate springs 

The lilac's purple spire 
Fast by its snowy sister's side; 

Or where, with wing of fire, 
The kingly oriole glancing went 

Amid the foliage rare, 
Shall many a group of children tread. 

But mine will not be there. 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 



165 



Fain would I know what forms 

The masterj here shall keep, 
What mother in yon nurserj fair 

Shall rock her babes to sleep : 
Yet blessings on the hallow'd spot, 

Though here no more I stray, 
And blessings on the stranger-babes 

Who in those halls shall play. 

Heaven bless you, too, my plants. 

And every parent bird 
That here, among the woven boughs. 

Above its young hath stirr'd. 
I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees. 

That often o'er my head 
The blossoms of your glorious spring 

In fragrant showers have shed. 

Thou, too, of fitful mood, 

I thank thee, murmuring stream. 
That blent thine echo with my thought, 

Or woke my musing dream. 
I kneel upon the verdant turf, 

For sure my thanks are due 
To moss-cup and to clover-leaf, 

That gave me draughts of dew. 



166 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 

To each perennial flower, 

Old tenants of the spot, 
The broad-leaf d lily of the vale, 

And the meek foi'get-me-not, 
To every daisy's dappled brow, 

To every violet blue, 
Thanks ! thanks ! may each returning year 

Your changeless bloom renew. 

Praise to our Father-God, 

High praise, in solemn lay, 
Alike for what his hand hath given, 

And what it takes away : 
And to some other loving heart 

May all this beauty be 
The dear retreat, the Eden-home 

That it hath been to me. 



BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 167 



BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 

" Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother." — 2 Sam. jux. 37. 

Son of Jesse ! let me go, 

Why should princely honours stay me ? — - 
Where the streams of Gilead flow, 
Where the light first met mine eye, 
Thither would I turn and die ; 
Where my parents' ashes lie, 

King of Israel ! bid them lay me. 

Bury me near my sire revered. 
Who righteous paths so firmly trod. 
Who early taught my soul with awe 
To heed the Prophets and the Law, 

And to my infant heart appear'd 
Majestic as a God: 

Oh ! when his sacred dust 
The cerements of the tomb shall burst, 



168 RARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 

Might I be worthy at his feet to rise, 

To yonder blissful skies, 
Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, 
Jehovah ! Lord of Hosts, the glory shall be thine. 

Cold' age upon my breast 
Hath shed a frost like death ; 
The wine-cup hath no zest, 
The rose no fragrant breath; 

Music from my ear hath fled. 
Yet still one sweet tone lingereth there, 
The blessing that my mother shed 
Upon my evening prayer. 

Dim is my wasted eye 
To all that beauty brings, 
The brow of grace — the form of symmetry 

Are half-forgotten things ; 
Yet one bright hue is vivid still, 
A mother's holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. 

Memory, with traitor-tread 

Methinks, doth steal away 
Treasures that the mind had laid 

Up for a wintry day. 
Images of sacred power, 
Cherish'd deep in passion's hour. 



BARZILLAT THE GILEADITE 169 

Faintly now mv bosom stir, 
Good and evil like a dream 
Half obscured and shadowy seem, 
Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, 

Yea — it remembereth her: 
Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. 



170 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 



GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 

Speak, speak, sweet guests. 

Yes, ope jour lips in words, 
'Tis my delight to talk with you, and fain 
I'd have an answer. I've been long conviflced 
You understand me, though you do not choose 
To wear your bright thoughts on your finger-tips, 
For all to sport with. 

Lily of the vale, 
And you, meek Violet, with your eyes of blue, 
I call on you the first, for well I know 
How prone the village maiden is to hide 
Her clear good sense among the city folks, 
Unless well urged, and fortified to speak. 

purple Pansy ! friend of earliest years. 
You're always welcome. Hath no grandame told 
You of your ancestors, who flourish'd fair 
Upon the margin of my native Thames ? 



GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 171 

'Twas not the fond garrulity of age, 

That made her laud the past, without respect 

To verity ; for I remember well 

How beautiful they were, and with what pride 

I used to pluck them, when my school was o'er, 

And love to place them, rich with breathing sweets. 

Between my Bible leaves, and find them there 

Month after month, pressing their bosoms close 

To some undying hope. 

Bright Hyacinth, 
I'm glad you've brought your little ones. How snug 
You wrap them in their hoods. But still I see 
Their merry eyes and their plump cheeks peep out. 
Ah ! here's the baby, in its blanket too. 
You're a good mother, sure. Don't be in haste 
To take their mantles off; the morn is chill; 
I'd rather see them one by one come forth, 
Just when they please. A charming family ! 
And very happy you must doubtless be 
In their sweet promise and your matron care. 

Gay, graceful Tulip, did you learn in France 
Your taste for dress ? and how to hold your head 
So elegantly ? In the gale yestreen, 
That o'er the parterre swept with sudden force, 
I thought I saw you waltzing. Have a care, 



172 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 

And do not look disdainfully on those 
You call plebeian flowers, because, you know, 
We live in a republic, where the strength 
Comes from beneath, and many a change occurs 
To lop the haughty and to lift the low. 

Good neighbour Cowslip, I have seen the bee 
Whispering to you, and have been told he stays 
Quite long and late amid your golden cells. 
Is it not business that he comes upon — 
Matter-of-fact ? He never wastes an hour. 
Know you that he's a subtle financier. 
And shows some gain for every day he spends ? 
Oh ! learn from him the priceless worth of time, 
Thou fair and frail ! So shalt thou prove the truth, 
That he who makes companion of the wise 
Shall in their wisdom share. 

Narcissus pale ! 
Had e'er a governess, who kept you close 
Over your needle or your music books ? 
Not suffering you to sweep a room, or make 
A pudding in the kitchen ? I'm afraid 
She shut you from the air and fervid sun, 
To keep you delicate, or let you draw 
Your corset-cord too tight. I would you were 
As hardy as your cousin Daffodil, 



GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 173 

Who to the sharp wind turns her buxom cheek 
Unshrinking, like a damsel taught to spin, 
And milk the cows, — her nerves by labour strung 
To bear its duties and its burdens too. 

Lilac of Persia ! tell us some fine tale 
Of Eastern lands. We're fond of travellers. 
Have you no legend of some sultan proud. 
Or old fire-worshipper ? What ! not one note 
Made on your voyage ? Well, 'tis wondrous strange 
That you should let so rare a chance slip by, 
While those who never journey'd half as far 
Fill sundry volumes, and expect the world 
To reverently peruse and magnify 
What it well knew before. 

Most glorious Rose, 
You are the queenly belle. On you, all eyes 
Admiring turn. Doubtless you might indite 
Romances from your own sweet history. 
They're quite the fashion now, and crowd the page 
Of every periodical. Wilt tell 
None of your heart-adventures ? Never mind ! 
We plainly read the zephyr's stolen kiss 
In your deep blush ; so where's the use to seal 
Your lips so cunningly, when all the world 
Call you the flower of love ? 



174 GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET. 

And now good-bye,- 
A pleasant gossip have I had with you, 
Obliging visitants, but must away 
To graver toils. Still keep your incense fresh, 
And free to rise to Him who tints your brows, 
Bidding the brown mould and unsightly stem 
Put forth such blaze of beauty, as translates 
To dullest hearts His dialect of love. 




Pool Enris dauglrter cxoss'd the indm 

la youttiR unioldiug pnme , 
A lot of seiTitude to tear 

111 tins r>in wf=-if'ni r.Time, 1- 



ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 175 



ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 

Poor Erin's daughter cross' d the main 

In youth's unfolding prime, 
A lot of servitude to bear 

In this our western clime. 

And when the drear heart-sickness came 

Beneath a stranger sky, 
Tears on her nightly pillow lay, 

But morning saw them dry. 

For still with earnest hope she strove 

Her distant home to cheer, 
And from her parents lift the load 

Of poverty severe. 

To them with liberal hand she sent 
Her all — her hard-earn 'd store — 

A rapture thrilling through her soul, 
She ne'er had felt before. 



176 ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 



E'en mid her quiet slumbers gleam'd 

A cabin's lighted pane, 
A board with simple plenty crown'd, 

A loved and loving train. 

And so her life of earnest toil 

With secret joy was blest, 
For the sweet warmth of filial love 

Made sunshine in her breast. 

But bitter tidings o'er the wave 

With fearful echo sped ; 
Gaunt famine o'er her home had strode, 

And all were with the dead ! 

All gone ! — her brothers in their glee, 

Her sisters young and fair; 
And Erin's daughter bow'd her down 

In desolate despair. 



THE HOLY DEAD. 177 



THE HOLY DEAD. 



" ■Wierefore I praised the dead who are already dead more than the living who aro 

yet alive." — Solomon. 



They dread no storm that lowers, 

No perish'd joys bewail; 
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 

Nor drink of streams that fail : 
There is no tear-drop in their eye. 

No change upon their brow ; 
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh 

Though all earth's idols bow. 

Who are so greatly blest ? 

From whom hath sorrow fled ? 
Who share such deep, unbroken rest 

Where all things toil ? The dead ! 
The holy dead. Why weep ye so 

Above yon sable bier ? 
Thrice blessed ! they have done with wo, 

The living claim the tear. 



178 THE HOLY DEAD. 

Go to their sleeping bowers, 

Deck their low couch of clay 
With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers; 

And when they fade away, 
Think of the amaranthine wreath, 

The garlands never dim, 
And tell me why thou fly'st from death, 

Or hid'st thy friends from him. 

We dream, but they awake; 

Dread visions mar our rest; 
Through thorns and snares our way we take, 

And yet we mourn the blest ! 
For spirits round the Eternal Throne 

How vain the tears we shed ! 
They are the living, they alone, 

Whom thus we call the dead. 



DEW-DROPS. 179 



DEW-DROPS. 

"Father, there are no dew-drops on my rose; 
I thought to find them, but they all are gone. 
Was night a niggard ? Or did envious dawn 
Steal those bright diamonds from unwaken'd day ?" 

The father answer' d not, but pointed where 
The sudden falling of a summer shower 
Made quiet music mid the quivering leaves, 
And through the hollows of the freshen'd turf 
Drew lines like silver. Then a bow sprang forth 
Spanning the skies. 

"See'st thou yon glorious hues, 
Violet and gold ? The dew-drops glitter there, 
That from the bosom of thy rose had fled, 
My precious child. Read thou their lesson well, 
That what is pure and beautiful on earth 
Shall smile in heaven." 

He knew not that he spake 



180 DEW-DROPS. 



Prophetic words. But ere the infant moon 
Swell' d to a perfect orb her crescent pale, 
That loving soul, which on the parent's breast 
Had sparkled as a dew-drop, was exhaled, 
To mingle mid the brightness of the skies. 



POCAHONTAS. 181 



POCAHONTAS. 



I. 



Clime of the West ! that, slumbering long and deep, 
Beneath thy misty mountains' solemn shade. 

And, lull'd by melancholy winds that sweep 
The unshorn forest and untrodden glade, 

Heard not the cry when mighty empires died. 

Nor caught one echo from oblivion's tide, 
While age on age its stormy voyage made : 

See ! Europe, watching from her sea-girt shore, 
Extends the sceptred hand, and bids thee dream no more. 

II. 

Say, was it sweet in cradled rest to lie. 

And 'scape the ills that older regions know? 

Prolong the vision'd trance of infancy. 

And hide from manhood's toil, mischance and wo ? 

Sweet, by the margin of thy sounding streams 

Freely to rove, and nurse illusive dreams, 

Nor taste the fruits on thorny trees that grow ? 



182 POCAHONTAS. 



The evil, and the sorrow, and the crime, 
That make the harass'd earth grow old before her time? 

III. 

Clime of the West ! that to the hunter's bow, 
And roving hordes of savage men, wert sold, 

Their cone-roof d wigwams pierced the wintry snow, 
Their tassel'd corn* crept sparsely through the mould, 

Their bark canoes thy glorious waters clave, 

The chase their glory, and the wild their grave : 
Look up ! a loftier destiny behold. 

For to thy coast the fair-hair'd Saxon steers, 
Kich with the spoils of time, the lore of bards and seers. 

IV. 

Behold a sail ! another, and another ! 

Like living things on the broad river's breast ; 
What were thy secret thoughts, oh red-brow'd brother, 

As toward the shore those white-winged wanderers 
press'd? 
But lo ! emerging from her forest zone, 



* To those not familiar with the appearance of the Indian corn, on whose cultivation 
the aborigines of America relied as a principal article of subsistence, it may be well to say 
that a silky fibre, sometimes compared to a tassel, is protruded from the extremity of the 
sheath which envelops the golden ear or sheaf of that stately and beautiful vegetable. 



POCAHONTAS. 183 



The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder thrown, 

With nodding plumes her raven tresses dress'd, 
Of queenly step, and form erect and bold. 
Yet mute with wondering awe, the New World meets the Old. 

V. 

Roll on, majestic flood, in power and pride, 
Which like a sea doth swell old ocean's sway; 

With hasting keel, thy pale-faced sponsors glide 
To keep the pageant of thy -christening day : 

They bless thy wave, they bid thee leave unsung 

The uncouth baptism of a barbarous tongue. 
And take his name — the Stuart's — first to lay 

The Scottish thistle on the lion's mane. 
Of all old Albion's kings, most versatile and vain. 

VI. 

Spring robes the vales.* With what a flood of light 
She holds her revels in this sunny clime ! 

The flower-sown turf like bossy velvet bright, 
The blossom'd trees exulting in their prime, 



* The ships which hore the Virginian colonists — the founders of our nation — entered 
the Chesapeake April 26, 1607; and on the 13th of May, five months from the time of 
setting sail from England, -(vhich was Becemher 19th, 1606, a permanent embarliation was 
effected at Jamestown, fifty miles up that noble river, to which the name of James was 
given, in honour of the reigning monarch. 



184 POCAHONTAS. 



The leaping streamlets in their joyous play, 
The birds that frolic mid the diamond spray, 

Or heavenward soar, with minstrelsy sublime : 
What wild enchantment spreads a fairy wing, 
As from their prisoning ships the enfranchised strangers 
spring. 

VII. 

Their tents are pitch'd, their spades have broke the soil, 
The strong oak thunders as it topples down. 

Their lily-handed youths essay the toil,* 

That from the forest rends its ancient crown. 

Where are your splendid halls, which ladies tread, 

Your lordly boards with every luxury spread, 
Virginian sires — ye men of old renown ? 

Though few and faint, your ever-living chain 
Holds in its grasp two worlds, across the surging main. 

VIII. 

Yet who can tell what fearful pangs of wo 

Those weary-hearted colonists await, 
When to its home the parting ship must go, 

And leave them in their exile, desolate ? 



* " The axe frequently blistered their tender fingers, so that many times sTery third 
blow had a loud oath to drown its echo." — Hillard's Life of Captain Smith. 



POCAHONTAS. 185 

Ah, who can paint the peril and the pain, 
The failing harvest and the famish' d train. 

The wily foe with ill-dissembled hate, 
The sickness of the heart, the wan despair. 
Pining for one fresh draught of its dear native air ? 

IX. 

Still, mid their cares, a hallow'd dome they rear'd, 

To nurse devotion's consecrated flame ; 
And there a wondering world of forests heard. 

First borne in solemn chant, Jehovah's name; 
First temple to his service, refuge dear 
From strong affliction and the alien's tear. 

How swell' d the sacred song in glad acclaim: 
"England, sweet mother!"* many a fervent prayer 
There pour'd its praise to heaven for all thy love and care. 

X. 

And they who 'neath the vaulted roof had bow'd 
Of some proud minster of the olden time. 

Or where the vast cathedral towards the cloud 
Rear'd its dark pile in symmetry sublime, 

While through the storied pane the sunbeam play'd, 

* "Lord, bless England, our sweet native country," was the morning and evening 
prayer in the chui'ch at Jamestown, the first church erected in our Western world. 



186 POCAHONTAS. 



Tinting the pavement with a glorious shade, 

Now breathed from humblest fane their ancient chime : 
And learn'd they not, His presence sure might dwell 
With every seeking soul, though bow'd in lowliest cell? 

XI. 

Yet not quite unadorn'd, their house of prayer: 
The fragrant oflfspring of the genial morn 

They duly brought;* and fondly ofFer'd there 
The bud that trembles ere the rose is born. 

The blue clematis and the jasmine pale. 

The scarlet woodbine waving in the gale, 
The rhododendron, and the snowy thorn, • 

The rich magnolia, with its foliage fair. 
High-priestess of the flowers, whose censer fills the air. 

XII. 

Might not such incense please thee, Lord of love ? 

Thou, who with bounteous hand dost deign to show 
Some foretaste of thy Paradise above. 

To cheer the way-worn pilgrim here below ? 
Bidd'st thou mid parching sands the floweret meek 
Strike its frail root and raise its tinted cheek. 



* " At the beginning of each day they assembled in the little church, which was kept 
neatly trimmed with the wild flowers of the country." — Bancroft, vol. j. p. 141. 



POCAHONTAS. 187 



And the slight pine defy the arctic snow, 
That e'en the skeptic's frozen eye may see 
On Nature's beauteous page what lines she writes of Thee ? 

XIII. 

What groups, at Sabbath morn, were hither led ! 

Dejected men with disappointed frown ; 
Spoil'd youths,* the parents' darling and their dread, 

From castles in the air hurl'd ruthless down ; 
The sea-bronzed mariner, the warrior, brave. 
The keen gold-gatherer, grasping as the grave ; 

Oft, mid these mouldering walls, which nettles crown, 
Stern breasts have lock'd their purpose and been still, 
And contrite spirits knelt, to learn their Maker's will. 

XIV. 

Here, in his surplice white, the pastor stood, f 
A holy man, of countenance serene. 



* " A great part of the new company who came out in 1609," says the historian Stith, 
"consisted of unruly sparks, packed off hy their friends to escape worse destinies at home. 
The rest were chiefly made up of poor gentlemen, broken tradesmen, footmen, and such 
others as were fitter to spoil and ruin a commonwealth than to help to raise and maintain 
one. ' When you send again,' Captain Smith was constrained to write to the Corporation 
in London, ' I entreat you, rather send but thirty carpenters, husbandmen, gardeners, fish- 
ermen, blacksmiths, masons, and diggers-up of trees' roots, than a thousand of such as we 
have.' " 

f " The morning-star of the church was the Rev. Mr. Hunt, sent out by the London 



188 POCAHONTAS. 



Who, mid the quaking earth or fiery flood 
Unmoved, in truth's own panoply, had heen 

A fair example of his own pure creed ; 

Patient of error, pitiful to need. 

Persuasive wisdom in his thoughtful mien. 

And in that Teacher's heavenly meekness bless'd, 
Who laved his followers' feet, with towel-girded vest. 

XV. 

Music upon the breeze ! the savage stays 

His flying arrow as the strain goes by; 
He starts ! he listens ! lost in deep amaze, 

Breath half-suppress'd, and lightning in his eye 
Have the clouds spoken ? Do the spirits rise 
From his dead fathers' graves, with wildering melodies ? 

Oft did he muse, 'neath midnight's solemn sky, 
On those deep tones, which, rising o'er the sod. 
Bore forth, from hill to hill, the white man's hymn to God. 



company in 1606, among the leaders of the infant colony. It was he who a<]ministered the 
sacrament of the Lord's Supper for the first time in Virginia at Jamestown, the first pei-- 
manent habitation of the English in America, and the site of the first Christian temple. 
He was a man of a truly humble, meek, and peaceful spirit, and it is impossible now to 
estimate the value of the beneficial influence he exercised upon the fortunes of the colony. 
His kind offices as peacemaker were frequently interposed to harmonize differences which 
would have been fatal to the enterprise ; and his example of suffering affliction, and of pa- 
tience in sioknces, in poverty, in peril, cheered hi.s drooping companions, inspiring them 
with svich fortitude, and stimulating them to such efibrts, as, with the blessing of Provi- 
dence, euablerl them to maintain their diffloult positions." — Rev. Philip SlangU^r. 



POCAHONTAS. 189 



XVI. 

News of the strangers stirr'd Powhatan's dreams. 

The mighty monarch of the tribes that roam 
A thousand forests,* and on countless streams 

Urge the swift bark and dare the cataract's foam ; 
The haughtiest chieftains in his presence stood 
Tame as a child, and from the field of blood 

His war-cry thrill'd with fear the foeman's home : 
His nod was death, his frown was fix'd as fate, 
Unchangeable his love, invincible his hate. 

XVII. 

A forest-child, amid the flowers at play !f 

Her raven locks in strange profusion flowing ; 

A sweet, wild girl, with eye of earnest ray, 
And olive cheek, at each emotion glowing ; 

Yet, whether in her gladsome frolic leaping. 

Or 'neath the greenwood shade unconscious sleeping. 
Or with light oar her fairy pinnace rowing. 



* Powhatan, the king of the country where the founders of "Virginia first chose their 
residence, was said to hold dominion over thirty nations or tribes who inhabited that 
region ; and being possessed both of arbitrary power and much native talent, his enmity 
vras dreaded, and pains taken by the colonists to conciliate his friendship. 

f " Pocahontas, the daughter of Powhatan, a girl of ten or twelve years of age, who, not 
only for feature, countenance, and expression, much exceeded any of the rest of her people, 
but for wit and spirit was the only nonpareil of the coxmtry. "-^Captain John Smith. 



190 POCAHONTAS. 



Still, like the eaglet on its new-fledged wing, 
Her spirit-glance bespoke the daughter of a king. 

XVIII. 

But he, that wily monarch, stern and old. 

Mid his grim chiefs, with barbarous trappings bright. 

That morn a court of savage state did hold. 

The sentenced captive see, — his brow how white ! 

Stretch' d on the turf his manly form lies low, 

The war-club poises for its fatal blow. 

The death-mist swims before his darken' d sight : 

Forth springs the child, in tearful pity bold. 
Her head on his reclines, her arms his neck enfold. 

XIX. 

" The child ! what madness fires her ? Hence ! Depart I 
Fly, daughter, fly ! before the death-stroke rings : 

Divide her, warriors, from that English heart." 
In vain ! for with convulsive grasp she clings : 

She claims a pardon from her frowning sire ; 

Her pleading tones subdue his gather'd ire ;* 
And so, uplifting high his feathery dart. 



* "Live! live!" said the softened monarch, "and malsp hatchets for me, and necklaces 
for Pocahontas." 



POCAHONTAS. 191 



That doting father gave the child her will, 
And bade the victim live, and be his servant still. 

XX. 

Know'st thou what thou hast done, thou dark-hair'd child ? 

What great events on thy compassion hung ? 
What prowess lurks beneath yon aspect mild, 

And in the accents of that foreign tongue ? 
As little knew the princess who descried 
A floating speck on Egypt's turbid tide, 

A bulrush-ark the matted reeds among, 
And, yielding to an infant's tearful smile, 
Drew forth Jehovah's seer from the devouring Nile. 

XXI. 

In many a clime, in many a battle tried 
By Turkish sabre and by Moorish spear ; 

Mid Afric's sands, or Russian forests wide. 
Romantic, bold, chivalrous, and sincere. 

Keen-eyed, clear-minded, and of purpose pure. 

Dauntless to rule, or patient to endure. 

Was he* whom thou hast rescued with a tear : 



* The extraordinary features in the character of Captain John Smith, and the strange 
incidents which made almost the whole of his life a romance, are exhibited by many histo- 
rians. Hillard, in his biography of him, says, " We see him performing at the same time 



192 POCAHONTAS. 



Thou wert the saviour of the Saxon vine, 
And for this deed alone, our praise and love are thine. 

XXII. 

Not yet for this alone, shall history's scroll 
Embalm thine image with a grateful tear ; 

For when the grasp of famine tried the soul. 

When strength decay'd, and dark despair was near, 

Who led her train of playmates, day by day, 

O'er rock, and stream, and wild, a weary way, 
Their baskets teemino- with the golden ear ?* 

Whose generous hand vouchsafed its tireless aid 
To guard a nation's germ ? Thine, thine, heroic maid ! 

XXIII. 

On sped the tardy seasons, and the hate 

Of the pale strangers wrung the Indian breast. 

the offices of a provident governor, a valiant soldier, an industrious labourer, capable alike 
of commanding and of executing. He seemed to court the dangers from which other men 
shrank, or which they encountered only from a sense of duty. As the storm darkens 
around him, his spirit grows more bright and serene. That which appals and disheartens 
others only animates him. He had a soul of fire, encased in a frame of adamant. Thu8 
was he enabled to endure and accomplish all the promptings of his adventurous spirit." 
" He was the father of Virginia," says Bancroft in his history, " the true leader who first 
planted the Saxon vine in the United States." 

* When the colony was in danger of utter extinction from the want of food, her zeal 
and Denevolence never slumbered. Accompanied by her companions, the child Pocahontas 
came every few days to the fort with baskets of corn for the starving garrison. Smith, in 
his letter to Queen Anne, writes, " She, next under God, was the instrument to preserve 



POCAHONTAS. 193 



Their hoary prophet breathed the ban of fate : 

"Hence with the thunderers ! Hide their race, un- 
bless'd, 
Deep 'neath the soil they falsely call their own ; 
For from our fathers' graves a hollow moan, 
Like the lash'd surge, bereaves my soul of rest. 
'They come ! they come !' it cries. 'Ye once were brave: 
Will ye resign the world that the Grreat Spirit gave ?" 

XXIV. 

Yet 'neath the settled countenance of guile 

They veil'd their vengeful purpose, dark and dire, 

And wore the semblance of a quiet smile. 
To lull the victim of their deadly ire : 

But ye, who hold of history's scroll the pen. 

Blame not too much those erring, red-brow' d men, 

Though nursed in wiles. Fear is the white-lipp'd sire 

Of subterfuge and treachery. 'Twere in vain 
To bid the soul be true, that writhes beneath his chain. 

XXV. 

Night, moonless night ! The forest hath no sound 
But the low shiver of its dripping leaves, 

this colony from death, famine, and ntter confusion, which, if in thdse times had once been 

dissolyed, Virginia might have lain as it was at our first arrival unto this day." 
13 R 



194 POCAHONTAS. 



Save here and there, amid its depths profound, 
The sullen sigh the prowling panther heaves; 

Save the fierce growling of the cubless bear. 

Or tramp of gaunt wolf rushing from his lair, 

Where its slow coil the poisonous serpent weaves: 

Who dares the dangerous path at hour so wild. 
With fleet and fawnlike step ? Powhatan's fearless child ! 

XXVI. 

" Up, up — away ! I heard the words of power, 
Those secret vows that seal a nation's doOm, 
Bid the red flame burst forth at midnight hour. 

And make the unconscious slumberer's bed his tomb; 
Spare not the babe — the rose-leaf of a day — 
But shred the sapling, like the oak, away. 

I heard the curse ! My soul is sick with gloom : 
Wake, chieftains, wake ! avert the hour of dread !" 
And with that warning voice the guardian-angel fled.* 

XXVII. 

On sped the seasons, and the forest-child 
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth ; 

* " Notwithstanding, the eternal, all-seeing God did prevent the plot of Powhatan, and 
by a strange means. For Pocahontas, his dearest jewel and daughter, came through the 
irksome woods in thaf dark night, and told us that great cheer might he sent us hy-and-by, 
but that the king, and all the power he could make, would afterward come and kill us all. 



POCAHONTAS. 195 



While o'er her features stole, serenely mild, 
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth. 

Her modesty and simpleness and grace : 

Yet those who deeper scan the human face. 
Amid the trial-hour of fear or ruth. 

Might clearly read, upon its heaven-writ scroll, 
That high and firm resolve which nerved the Roman soul. 

XXVIII. 

The simple sports that charm'd her childhood's way, 
Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vines. 

The curious glance of wild and searching ray. 
Where innocence with ignorance combines, 

Were changed for deeper thought's persuasive air. 

Or that high port a princess well might wear. 
So fades the doubtful star when morning shines ; 

So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray, 
And on the crimson cloud casts off its mantle gray. 

XXIX. 

On sped the tardy seasons. Need I say 

What still the indignant lyre declines to tell ? 



Therefore, if we would live, she wished us presently to be gone. Such things as she de- 
lighted in we would have given her; but, with tears running down her cheeks, she said she 
durst not be seen to have them; for, if Powhatan should know it, she were but dead. And 
80 she ran away by herself, as she came." — Captain Smith. 



196 POCAHONTAS. 

How, by rude hands, tlie maiden, boi-ne away, 
Was forced amid tlie invaders' homes to dwell ? 

Yet no harsh bonds the guiltless prisoner wore, 

No sharp constraint her gentle spirit bore. 
Held as a hostage in the stranger's cell;* 

So, to her wayward fate submissive still. 
She meekly bow'd her heart to learn a Saviour's will. 

XXX. 

And holy was the voice that taught her ear 
How for our sins the Lord of life was slain ; 

While o'er the listener's bosom flow'd the tear 
Of wondering gratitude, like spring-tide rain. 

New joys burst forth, and high resolves were born 

To choose the narrow path that worldlings scorn, 
And walk therein. Oh, happy who shall gain 

From the brief cloud that in his path may lie 
A heritage sublime, a mansion in the sky. 

XXXI. 

In graceful youth, within the house of prayer. 
Who by the sacred font so humbly kneels. 



* The object of the capture and detention of the princess seems to have been to bring 
her father to such terms as the colonists desired, or to extort from him a large ransom ; 
both of wliich designs were frustrated. 



POCAHONTAS. 197 



And with a tremulous yet earnest air, 

The deathless vow of Christian fealty seals ? 

The Triune Name is breathed with hallow' d power, 

The dew baptismal bathes the forest-flower, 
And, lo ! her chasten' d smile that hope reveals 

Which nerved the weary dove o'er floods unbless'd, 
The olive-leaf to pluck, and gain the ark of rest. 

XXXII. 

Pour forth your incense ; fragrant shrubs and flowers, 
Wave your fresh leaflets, and with beauty glow ; 

And wake the anthem in your choral bowers. 

Birds, whose warm hearts with living praise o'erflow; 

For she who loved your ever-varied dyes. 

Mingling her sweet tones with your symphonies, 
Seeks higher bliss than charms like yours bestow— 

A home unchangeable — an angel's wing — 
Where is no fading flower, nor lute with jarring string. 

XXXIII. 

Another change. The captive's lot grew fair: 

A soft illusion with her reveries blent, 
New charms dispell'd her solitary care, 

And hope's fresh dew-drops gleam'd where'er she 
went ; 



198 POCAHONTAS. 



Eavtli seem'cl to glow with Eden's purple light, 
The fleeting days glanced by on pinions bright, 

For every hour a rainbow lustre lent; 

While, with his tones of music in her ear, 

Love's eloquence inspired the graceful cavalier. 

XXXIV. 

Yet love to her pure breast was but a name 
For kindling knowledge, and for taste refined; 

A guiding lamp, whose bright, mysterious flame 
Led on to loftier heights the aspiring mind. 

Hence flow'd the idiom of a foreign tongue 

All smoothly o'er her lip; old history flung 
Its annal wide, like banner on the wind. 

And o'er the storied page, with rapture wild, 
A new existence dawn'd on nature's fervent child. 

XXXV. 

A throng is gathering; for the hallow'd dome 
At evening-tide is rich with sparkling light, 

And from its verdant bound each rural home 

Sends forth its blossom'd gifts, profusely bright; 

While here and there, amid the clustering flowers, 

Some stately chief or painted warrior towers, 
Hail'd as a brother mid the festal rite: 



POCAHONTAS. 199 



Peace waves her garland o'er tlie favour'd place 
Where weds the new-born West with Europe's lordly race.* 

XXXVIi 

A group before the altar. Breathe thy vow, 
Loving and stainless one, without a fear ; 

For he who wins thee to his bosom now. 
Gem of the wild, unparalleled and dear, 

Will guard thee ever, as his treasure rare. 

With changeless tenderness and constant care; 
How speaks his noble brow a soul sincere. 

While the old white-hair' d king, with eye of pride, 
Gives to his ardent hand the timid, trusting bride. 

XXXVII. 

Not with more heartfelt joy the warlike bands 
Of Albion, spent with long disastrous fray, 

Beheld young Tudor cleanse his blood-stain' d hands, 
And lead the blooming heir of York away, 

'Neath the sweet music of the marriage bells. 

Then on those tented hills and ravaged dells 
The War of Roses died : no more the ray 

* The marriage of Mr. Rolfe -witli Pocahontas took place in the church at Jamestown 
in the month of April, 1613, and gave great delight to Powhatan and his chieftains, who 
were present at the ceremony, and also to the English, and pi-oved a bond of peace and 
amity between them as lasting as the life of the Indian king. 



200 POCAHONTAS. 



Of white or red, the fires of hate illumed, 
But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloom'd.* 

XXXVIII. 

Young wife, how beautiful the months swept by. 

Within thy bower methinks I view thee still : 
The meek observance of thy lifted eye 

Bent on thy lord, and prompt to do his will; 
The care for him, the happiness to see 
His soul's full confidence repose in thee, 

The sacrifice of self, the ready skill 
In duty's path, the love without alloy, 
These gave each circling year a brighter crown of joy. 

XXXIX. 

Out on the waters ! On the deep, deep sea ! 

Out, out upon the waters ! Surging foam, 
Swell'd by the winds, rolls round her wild and free, 

And memory wanders to her distant home. 
To fragrant gales, the blossom'd boughs that stir, 



* The rose striped with white and red, sometimes called the rose of Sharon, has heen 
said in some ancient legend, to have heen first seen in England after the marriage of Henry 
VII. to Elizaheth, daughter of Edward IV., when the civil war which had so long raged 
with hitterness was terminated, and the Red Rose of Lancaster and the White Rose of 
York ceased to be the unnatural symbols of bloodshed. 



POCAHONTAS. 201 



.To the sad sire who fondly dreams of her ; 

But kindling smiles recall the thoughts that roam, 
For at her side a bright-hair' d nursling plajs, 
While bends her bosom's lord with fond, delighted gaze. 

XL. 

And this is woman's world. It matters not 
Though in the trackless wilderness she dwell. 

Or on the cliff where hangs the Switzer's cot, 
Or in the subterranean Greenland cell : 

Her world is in the heart. Rude storms may rise, 

And dark eclipse involve ambition's skies, 

But dear affection's flame burns pure and well. 

And therefore 'tis, with such a placid eye. 
She soothes her loved ones' pangs, or lays her down to die. 

XLI. 

Lo ! Albion's cliffs, in glorious light that shine, 
Welcome the princess of the infant West. 

'Twas nobly done, thou queen of Stuart's line,* 
To soothe the tremors of that stranger's breast ; 



* On the 12tli of June, 1016, Mr. Rolfe, with his Indian wife, who, after her baptism, 
was known by the name of the Lady Kebecca, arrived in England. Her merits had pre- 
ceded her, and secured for her the attentions and hospitality of persons of rank and 
influence. The queen of James I., the reigning monarch, treated her with affability and 
respect. "It pleased both the king's and queen's majesties," writes Captain Smith, 



203 POCAHONTAS. 



And when, upon tliy ladies richlj dight, 
She, through a flood of ebon tresses bright. 

Uplifts the glances of a timid guest, 
What sees she there ? The greeting smiles that brought 
O'er her own lofty brow its native hues of thought. 

XLII. 

But what delighted awe her accents breathed, 
The gorgeous domes of ancient days to trace, 

The castellated towers, with ivy wreathed, 
The proud mementoes of a buried race ; 

Or 'neath some mighty minster's solemn pile. 

Dim arch, and fretted roof, and long-drawn aisle, 
How rush'd the heart's blood wildly to her face, 

When, from the living organ's thunder-chime, 
The full Te Deum burst in melody sublime. 

XLIII. 

Yet, mid the magic of those regal walls. 

The glittering train, the courtier's flattering tone, 

Or by her lord, through fair ancestral halls. 
Led on, to claim their treasures as her own, 



"honourably to esteem her, accompanied with that honourable lady, the Lady Delaware, 
and that honourable lord her husband, and divers other persons of good quality, both 
publicly and at the masks and concerts, to her great satisfaction and content." 



POCAHONTAS. 203 



Stole back the scenery of her solitude : 
An aged father, in his cabin rude, 

Mix'd with her dreams a melancholy moan, 
Notching his simple calendar,* with pain. 
And straining his red eye to watch the misty main. 

XLIV. 

Prayer, prayer for him ! when the young dawn arose 
With its gray banner, or red day declined, 

Up went his name, for ever blent with those 

Most close and strong around her soul entwined. 

Husband and child; and, as the time drew near 

To fold him to her heart with filial tear. 

For her first home her warm afiections pined. 

That time — it came not! for a viewless hand 
Was stretch'd to bar her foot from her green childhood's land. 

XLV. 

Sweet sounds of falling waters, cool and clear, 
The crystal streams, her playmates, far away. 



* The mode of computation by cutting notches upon a stick prevailed among many of 
our aboriginal tribes. One of the council of Powhatan, who accompanied Pocahontas, was 
directed in this manner to mark the number of the people he might meet. He obtained a 
very long cane on his landing, and commenced the task. But he soon became weary of 
this manner of taking the census, and, on his return home, said to his king, " Count the 
stars in the sky, the leaves on the trees, the sands on the seashore, but not the people of 
England." 



204 POCAHONTAS. 



Oft, oft their dulcet music mock'd her ear, 
As, restless, on her fever' d couch she lay; 

Strange visions hover'd round, and harpings high, 

From spirit-bands, and then her lustrous eye 
Welcomed the call; but earth resumed its sway, 

And all its sacred ties convulsive twined. 
How hard to spread the wing, and leave the loved behind ! 

XLVI. 

Sunset in England at the autumn prime ! 

Through foliage rare, what floods of light were sent ! 
The full and whitening harvest knew its time, 

And to the sickle of the reaper bent ; 
Forth rode the winged seeds upon the gale, 
New homes to find; but she, with lip so pale. 

Who on the arm of her beloved leant. 
Breathed words of tenderness, with smile serene, 
Though faint and full of toil, the gasp and groan between. 

XLVII. 

" Oh, dearest friend, Death cometh ! He is here. 
Here at my heart ! Air ! air ! that I may speak 

My hoarded love, my gratitude sincere, 
To thee and to thy people. But I seek 

In vain. Though most unworthy, yet I hear 



POCAHONTAS. 205 



A call, a voice too bless'd for mortal ear;" 

And "with a marble coldness on her cheek, 
And one long moan, like breaking harp-string sweet, 
She bare the unspoken lore to her Redeemer's feet. 

XLVIII. 

Gone ? Crone ? Alas ! the burst of wild despair 
That rent his bosom who had loved so well ; 

He had not yet put forth his strength to bear, 
So suddenly and sore the death-shaft fell. 

Man hath a godlike might in danger's hour, 

In the red battle, or the tempest's power ; 
Yet is he weak when tides of anguish swell. 

Ah, who can mark with cold and tearless eyes 
The grief of stricken man when his sole idol dies ! 

XLIX. 

And she had fled, in whom his heart's deep joy 
Was garner' d up ; fled, like the rushing flame, 

And left no farewell for her fair young boy. 
Lo ! in his nurse's arms he careless came, 

A noble creature, with his full dark eye 

And clustering curls, in nature's majesty ; 
But, with a sudden shriek, his mother's name 



206 POCAHONTAS. 

Burst from his lips, and, gazing on the clay, 
He stretch'd his eager arms where the cold sleeper lay. 

L. 

" Oh, mother ! mother !" Did that bitter cry 

Send a shrill echo through the realm of death ? 
Look to the trembling fringes of the eye ; 

List the sharp shudder of returning breath. 
The spirit's sob ! They lay him on her breast ; 
One long, long kiss on his bright brow she press' d; 

E'en from heaven's gate of bliss she lingereth, 
To breathe one blessing o'er his precious head, 
And then her arm unclasps, and she is of the dead.* 

LI. 

The dead ! the sainted dead ! why should we weep 
At the last change their settled features take ? 

At the calm impress of that holy sleep 

Which care and sorrow never more shall break? 

Believe we not His word who rends the tomb, 



* Early in the year 1617, while preparing to return to her native land, she was talien 
sick, and died at the age of twenty-two. She was buried at Gravesend. Her firmness and 
resignation proved the sincerity of her piety ; and, as Bancroft eloquently observes, " She 
■was saved, as if by the hand of mercy, from beholding the extermination of the tribes from 
which she sprang, leaving a spotless name, and dwelling in memory under the form of 
perpetual youth." 



POCAHONTAS. 207 



And bids the slumberers from that transient gloom 

In their Redeemer's glorious image wake ? 
Approach we not the same sepulchral bourne 
Swift as the shadow fleets ? What time have we to mourn? 

LII. 

A little time thou found'st, pagan king, 

A little space, to murmur and repine : 
Oh, bear a few brief months afiliction's sting. 

And gaze despondent o'er the billowy brine, 
And then to the Great Spirit, dimly traced 
Through cloud and tempest, and with fear embraced, 

In doubt and mystery, thy breath resign; 
And to thy scorn'd and perish'd people go, 
From whose long-trampled dust our flowers and herbage 
grow. 

LIII. 

Like the fallen leaves those forest-tribes have fled ; 

Deep 'neath the turf their rusted weapon lies ; 
No more their harvest lifts its golden head. 

Nor from their shaft the stricken red-deer flies ; 
But from the far, far west, where holds, so hoarse, 
The lonely Oregon, its rock-strewn course, 

While old Pacific's sullen surge replies, 



208 POCAHONTAS. 



Are heard their exiled murmurings deep and low, 
Like one whose smitten soul departeth full of wo. 

LIV. 

I would ye were not, from your fathers' soil, 
Track'd like the dun wolf, ever in your breast 

The coal of vengeance and the curse of toil ; 
I would we had not to your mad lip prest 

The fiery poison-cup, nor on ye turn'd 

The blood-tooth' d ban-dog, foaming, as he burn'd 
To tear your flesh ; but thrown in kindness blest 

The brother's arm around ye, as ye trod, 
And led ye, sad of heart, to the meek Lamb of God. 

LV. 

Forgotten race, farewell ! Your haunts we tread, 
Our mighty rivers speak your words of yore. 

Our mountains wear them on their misty head. 
Our sounding cataracts hurl them to the shore ; 

But on the lake your flashing oar is still, 

Hush'd is your hunter's cry on dale and hill, 
Your arrow stays the eagle's flight no more; 

And ye, like troubled shadows, sink to rest 
Li unremember'd tombs, unpitied and unbless'd. 



POCAHONTAS. 209 



LVI. 

The council-fires are quench'd, that erst so red 
Their midnight volume mid the groves entwined; 

King, stately chief, and warrior-host are dead, 
Nor remnant nor memorial left behind : 

But thou, forest-princess, true of heart, 

When o'er our fathers waved destruction's dart, 
Shalt in their children's loving hearts he shrined ; 

Pure, lonely star, o'er dark oblivion's wave. 
It is not meet thy name should moulder in the grave. 

14 



210 THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP. 



THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP 

I SAW a tiny footstep in the snow, 
Beside a cottage door. 

So slight it was, 
And fairy-like, methought it scarce belong'd 
To our terrestrial race. With zigzag course, 
On the white element it left a trace, 
While here and there, the likeness of a hand, 
Each baby-finger like a spider's claw 
Outspread to clutch, reveal'd some morsel cold, 
Snatch'd, and by stealth to the red lip conveyed. 
— Didst think 'twas sugar, child? and this round world 
All one huge, frosted cake? 

Others have made 
Mistakes as strange, e'en though their locks were gray. 

So musing on I went, until the track 
Of that small creature was abruptly stay'd, 
While trampling parallel, broad, heavy feet. 



THE LITTLE FOO;rSTEP. 211 

In backward lines, their giant impress made, 
Quite to the cottage-gate. 

Some pirate, sure, 
Had captured the poor traveKer, in the bud 
And blossom of its jojous enterprise. 
And, nolens volens, bore it home again. 
Moreover, in the note-book of the snow 
I read this capture was against its will, 
For at the juncture of those differing feet, 
Marks of a passion-struggle plainly told 
A differing purpose; and I seem'd to hear 
The angry shriek of the indignant child 
Intent on freedom, and the smother' d wail 
With which, at length, it yielded to the force 
Of nurse or servant, — and to nursery drear, 
Perchance to darken'd closet, for its fault 
Was borne appall' d. 

So, o'er the race of time. 
Young fancy starts, unbridled, unarray'd. 
Undisciplined, until stern Reason's grasp 
Arrests the fugitive. Anon, the cares. 
And toils, and tyrannies of time, dispel 
Its frost-work fabrics. So, with pinion'd wing 
And fallen crest, it yieldeth to their will. 
Bearing '■'■ suh jug-um" on its tattoo'd brow 
Like some New Zealand chief. 



212 THE LITTLE FOOTSTEP. 

A lesson strong, 
Yet needful, thou hast in thy memory stored 
This day, sad infant. 

Liberty's excess 
Is pruned within thee, and henceforth must know 
Curb and restraint, till, like La Plata's steed, 
It heed the lasso well. 

Thus, may we gain, 
We, older scholars in life's school austere, 
From all its discipline a will subdued. 
And, when its hour-glass closes, find at last 
A Father's house, like thee. 



SCOTLAND'S FAMINE 213 



SCOTLAND'S FAMINE. 

There's weeping mid the lonely sea 
Where the rude Hebrids lie, 

And where the misty Highlands point 
Their foreheads to the sky. 

The oats were blighted on the stalk. 

The corn before its bloom, 
And many a hand that held the plough 

Is pulseless in the tomb. 

There is no playing in the streets, 

The haggard children move 
Like mournful phantoms, mute and slow, 

Uncheer'd by hope or love. 

No dog upon his master fawns, 
No sheep the hillocks throng. 

Not e'en the playmate kitten sports . 
The sad-eyed babes among. 



214 SCOTLAND'S FAMINE. 

No more the cock his clarion sounds, 
Nor brooding wing is spread ; 

There is no food in barn or stall, 
The household birds are dead. 

From the young maiden's hollow cheek 
The ruddy blush is gone. 

The peasant like a statue stands, 
And hardens into stone. 

The shuttle sleepeth in the loom. 
The crook upon the walls. 

And from the languid mother's hand 
The long-used distaff falls. 

She hears her children ask for bread, 
And what can she bestow ? 

She sees their uncomplaining sire 
A mournful shadow grow. 

Oh Scotia ! Sister ! if thy woes 

Awake no pitying care, 
If long at banquet-board we sit 

Nor heed thy deep despair, — 



SCOTLAND'S FAMINE. 215 



While thou art pining unto death, 
Amid thy heather brown, 

Wilt not the Giver of our joys 
Upon our luxuries frown ? 

And blast the blossom of our pride, 
And ban the rusted gold, 

And turn the morsel into gall 
That we from thee withhold ? 



216 THE PASSING BELL. 



THE PASSING BELL. 



In ancient times, the passing bell was tolled when a fellow-being approached death, 
that Christians might unite in supplication for a peaceful passage to the departing soul. 
This usage was probably abolished about the time of the Reformation, lest it might tend 
to fortify the Komish custom of praying for the dead. 



Oh, solemn passing-bell ! 
What said thy measured knell 

In ancient time, 
When, breaking folly's song, 
It warn'd a listening throng 

With mournful chime ? 

Slowly o'er rock and dell. 
Thus thy deep accents fell, 

Thus spake the toll: 
" One of thine own frail race 
Gaspeth in death's embrace — 

Pray for his soul. 



THE PASSING BELL. 217 

"The strong man's arm is weak; 
See from pale brow and cheek 

Cold dew-drops roll; 
How can he break away 
From those who need his stay ? 

Pray for his soul. 

"Hark to a wailing sound ! 
A household gather round 

With grief and dole ; 
The mother struggleth sore, 
She heeds her babe no more — 

Pray for her soul. 

" To beauty's shaded room, 
The spoiler's step of gloom 

Hath darkly stole; 
Her lips are ghastly white, 
A film is o'er her sight — 

Pray for her soul." 

Oh, bell that slowly toll'd ! 
Were these thy words of old, 

Bidding men bow 
In prayer for those who bear 
The pang they soon must share ? 

What say'st thou now? 



218 THE PASSING BELL. 

"One from his dear abode 
Travelleth the church-yard road, 

To his last bed; 
The widow next the bier 
Walketh, with blinding tear — 

Toll for the dead. 

" The pauper layeth down 
Gaunt penury's galling crown 

Of scorn and dread ; 
Great as a king he goes 
Unto his long repose — 
• Toll for the dead. 

"From crib and cradle fair, 
From love's unresting care, 

A child hath fled ; 
Let snow-drops lift their eye 
Where the shorn bud must lie — 
Toll for the dead. 

"Low 'neath the coffin-lid 
An aged one hath hid 

His hoary head ; 
On staff, at sunny door, 
Ye'll see him lean no more — 

Toll for the dead." 



THE PASSING BELL. ' 219 

Oil, holy passing bell ! 
Mingling thy solemn knell 

Thus with our tears; 
While, like the shuttle's flight, 
Like the short summer-night, 

Fleet our brief years ; 

Prompt us His will to do, 
Bid us His favour sue, 
Warn us His wrath to rue, 

Unto whose eye, 
Unto whose bar of dread, 
Judge of the quick and dead, 
Every hour's silent tread 

Bringeth us nigh. 



220 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 



THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 

An axe rang shaqjly mid those forest shades 
Which from creation toward the skies had tower'd 
In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, 
Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side 
His little son, with question and response, 
Beguiled the toil. 

"Boy, thou hast never seen 
Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks 
Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou 
The mighty river on whose breast we sail'd. 
So many days, on toward the setting sun? 
Our own Connecticut, compared to that, 
Was but a creeping stream." 

"Father, the brook 
That by our door went singing, where I launch'd 
My tiny boat, with my young playmates round. 
When school was o'er, is dearer far to me. 
Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye 
They are as strangers. And those little trees 



THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 221 

My mother nurtured in the garden bound 
Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach 
Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, 
Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 

"What, ho! mj little girl," and with light step 
A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, 
And, setting down the basket that contain'd 
His noon's repast, look'd upward to his face 
With sweet confiding smile. 

"See, dearest, see, 
That bright-wing' d paroquet, and hear the song 
Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees, 
Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear. 
In far New England, such a mellow tone?" 

"I had a robin that did take the crumbs 
Each night and morning, and his chirping voice 
Still made me joyful, as I went to tend 
My snow-drops. I was always laughing then. 
In that first home. I should be happier now, 
Methinks, if I could find among these dells 
The same fresh violets." 

Slow night drew on, 
And round the rude hut of the emigrant 
The wrathful spirit of the rising storm 



222 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 



Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, 
And he, with head declined, sat listening long 
To the swoln waters of the Illinois 
Dashing against their shores. 

Starting he spake — 
"Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear? 
'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls 
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights. 
Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests, 
Befit thee better than these rugged walls 
Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." 

"No, no. All was so still around, methought 
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, 
Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows, 
So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice 
Dissolved the illusion." 

And the gentle smile 
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that sooth'd 
Her waking infant, reassured his soul 
That wheresoe'er our best affections dwell. 
And strike a healthful root, is happiness. 
Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; 
But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play 
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought 
Their will with him. 



THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 223 

Up rose the thronging mart 
Of his own native city — roof and spire, 
All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray. 
The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neigh'd; 
The favorite dog came frisking round his feet, 
With shrill and joyous bark; familiar doors 
Flew open; greeting hands with his were link'd 
In friendship's grasp ; he heard the keen debate 
From congregated haunts, where mind Avith mind 
Doth blend and brighten — and, till morning, roved 
Mid the loved scenery of his native land. 



224 THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 



THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL AT 
A FESTIVAL. 

She sate beneath the leafy shade 

Where young birds chirp'd in leafy cell, 

Where wild flowers deek'd the mossy glade, 
And tuneful waters murmuring fell. 

. And smile and song and mirth were there, 
While youth and joy fresh garlands wove. 
And white-robed forms, with tresses fair, 
Were gliding through the enchanted grove. 

But there she sat with drooping head, 
By stern misfortune darkly bound. 

By holy light unvisited, 

And silent mid a world of sound. 

Chain'd down to solitary gloom, 

No sense of quick delight was there. 

Save when the blossom's rich perfume 
Came floating on the scented air. 



THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 225 

She rose, and sadly sought her home 

Where with the voiceless train she dwelt, 

'Neath charity's majestic dome, 

For bounteous hearts her sorrows felt. 

But while her mute companions share 
Those joys that ne'er await the blind, 

A moral night of deep despair 

Descending shrouds her lonely mind. 

For not to her, Creation lends 

Or blush of morn or beaming moon, 
Nor pitying Knowledge makes amends 

For step-dame Nature's stinted boon. 

Yet deem not, though so dark her path, 
Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot, 

Or in its bitter cup of wrath 

The healing drop of balm forgot. 

No ! still with unambitious mind 

The needle's patient task to ply, 
At the full board her place to find. 

Or close in sleep the placid eye; 



226 THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 

With order's unobtrusive charm 
Her simple wardrobe to dispose, 

To press of guiding care the arm, 

And rove where autumn's bounty flows; 

With touch so exquisitely true 
That vision stands astonish'd by, 

To recognise with ardor due 

Some friend or benefactor nigh; 

Her hand mid childhood's curls to place. 
From fragrant buds the breath to steal. 

Of stranger-guest the brow to trace, 
Are pleasures left for her to feel. 

And often o'er her hour of thought 
Will burst a laugh of wildest glee, 

As if the living gems she caught 
On wit's fantastic drapery; 

As if, at length, relenting skies. 

In pity to her doom severe, 
Had bade a mimic morning rise. 

The chaos of the soul to cheer. 



THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 227 

But who, with energy divine, 

May tread that undiscover'd maze, 
Where Nature in her curtain'd shrine 
. The strange and new-born thought surveys ? 

Where quick Perception shrinks to find 

On eye and ear the envious seal, 
And wild ideas throng the mind. 

That palsied speech must ne'er reveal; • 

Where Instinct, like a robber bold, 

Steals sever' d links from Reason's chain, 

And, leaping o'er her barrier cold, 
Proclaims the proud precaution vain. 

Say, who shall with magician's wand 

That elemental mass compose. 
Where young affections slumber fond 

Like germs unwaked mid wintry snows ? 

Who, in that undecipher'd scroll, 

The mystic characters may see. 
Save He who reads the secret soul. 

And holds of life and death the key ? 



228 THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL, 

Then, on thy midnight journey roam, 
Poor "wandering child of rayless gloom, 

And to thy last and narrow home, 
Drop gently from this living tomb. 

Yes, — uninterpreted and drear, 
Toil onward with benighted mind, 

Still kneel at prayers thou canst not hear, 
And grope for truth thou mayst not find. 

No scroll of friendship, or of love. 

Must breathe soft language o'er thy heart; 

Nor that blest Book which guides above, 
Its message to thy soul impart. 

But Thou who didst on Calvary die, 
Flows not thy mercy wide and free ? 

Thou who didst rend of Death the tie, 
Is Nature s seal too strong for thee ? 

And Thou, oh Spirit pure ! whose rest 
Is with the lowly contrite train, 

Illume the- temple of her breast. 
And cleanse of latent ill the stain ; 



THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL. 229 

That she, whose pilgrimage below 

Was night that never hoped a morn, 
That undeclining day may know 

Which of eternity is born. 

The great transition who can tell ? 

When from the ear its seal shall part, 
Where countless lyres seraphic swell, 

And holy transport thrills the heart ; 

When the chain'd tongue, forbid to pour 

The broken melodies of time. 
Shall to the highest numbers soar 

Of everlasting praise sublime : 

When those veil'd orbs, which ne'er might trace 

The features of their kindred clay. 
Shall scan, of Deity, the face. 

And glow with rapture's deathless ray. 



230 NO GOD. 



NO GOD. 

"The fool hath said in his heart. There is no God." — Psalm xiv. 

"No God ! no God !" The simplest flower 
That on the wild is found, 
Shrinks, as it drinks its cup of dew, 
And trembles at the sound. 
"No God!" astonish'd Echo cries 
From out her cavern hoar; 
And everj wandering bird that flies 
Reproves the atheist lore. 

The solemn forest lifts its head 

The Almighty to proclaim ; 
The brooklet, on its crystal urn, 

Doth leap to grave his name ; 
High swells the deep and vengeful sea 

Along its billowy track, 
And red Vesuvius opes his mouth 

To hurl the falsehood back. 



NO GOD. 231 

The palm-tree, with its princely crest, 

The cocoa's 4eafy shade, 
The bread-fruit, bending to its lord. 

In yon far island glade; 
The winged seeds that, borne by winds, 

The roving sparrows feed, 
The melon on the desert sands. 

Confute the scorner's creed. 

^^Ifo G-od!" With indignation high 

The fervent sun is stirr'd. 
And the pale moon turns paler still 

At such an impious word ! 
And, from their burning thrones, the stars 

Look down with angry eye, 
That thus a worm of dust should mock 

Eternal Majesty. 



232 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 



THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 

Wheels o'er the pavement roll'd, and a slight form, 
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood, 
Reach' d the paternal threshold. Wrathful night 
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung 
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls. 
She stood and shiver'd, but no mother's hand 
Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress 
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand 
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm. 

Gray and sad, 
The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man. 
The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds 
Of her slain brothers for the battle-field, 
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain 
Where her sick father pined. 

Oft had he yearn'd 
For her sweet presence ; oft, in midnight's watch. 
Mused of his dear one's smile, till dreams restored 
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip 



THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 233 

Breathing Ms woes away. While distant far, 
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks, 
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still. 
In the heart's casket, his approving word 
And the pure music of the welcome home, 
Rich payment of her labours. 

But there came 
A summons of surprise, and on the wings 
Of filial love she hasted. 'Twas too late ; 
The lamp of life still burn'd, yet 'twas too late. 
The mind had pass'd away, and who could call 
Its wing from out the sky? 

For the embrace 
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare 
Of a fix'd vacant eye. Disease had dealt 
A fell assassin's blow. Oh Grod ! the blight 
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain 
The passive hand was grasp'd, and the wide halls 
Re-echo'd ''Father! father!'- 

Through the shades 
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent ; 
Bathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow, 
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn 
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd 
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray 
Flush' d that wan brow, as if with one brief trace 



234 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 



Of waken'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all, 
And hope's fond vision faded, as the day 
Rode on in glory. 

Eve her curtain drew 
An& found that pale and beautiful watcher there, 
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch 
Toss'd the sick man. Cold lethargy had steep'd 
Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream, 
And agony was stirring Nature up 
To struggle with her foe. 

"Father in heaven ! 
Oh give him sleep !" sigh'd an imploring voice. 
And then she ran to hush the measured tick 
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl 
That, clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd 
A boding note. But soon from that lone couch 
A hollow groan announced the foe that strikes 
But once. 

They bore the fainting girl away, 
And paler than that ashen corse, her face, 
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid, 
Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad 
To see a young heart breaking, while the old 
Sank down to rest. 

There was another change. 
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour. 



THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 235 

And groups came gathering to the gate where stood 

The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy hearts, 

And curious villagers, intent to scan 

The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men. 

E'en o'er the coffin and the warning shroud, 

Revolving selfish schemes. 

But one was there, 
To whom all earth could render nothing back, 
Like that pale, changeless brow. Calmly she stood, 
As marble statue. Not one trickling tear 
Or trembling of the eyelid told she lived, 
Or tasted sorrow.. The old house-dog came. 
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm. 
All unreproved. 

He for his master mourn'd; 
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft 
His shaggy length through many a fireside hour 
Stretch' d at her father's feet ? who round his bed 
Of sickness watch' d with wistful, Avondering eye 
Of earnest sympathy ? No, round his neck 
Her infant arms had clasp'd, and still he raised 
His noble front beside her, proud to guard 
The last, loved relic of his master's house. 

The deadly calmness of that mourner's brow 
Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought 



236 THE MOURNING DAUGHTER. 

Of babbling gossips. Of her sire they spake, 

Who suffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch 

The tresses of his darling, and who dream' d, 

In the warm passion of his heart's sole love. 

She was a mate for angels. Bold they gazed 

Upon her tearless cheek, and, murmuring, said, 

"How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd." 

Oh woman, oft misconstrued ! the pure pearls 

Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well, 

For the unpausing and impatient hand 

To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast 

Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly«down. 

Though the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint 

Of common grief. 

E'en on to life's decline. 
Through all the giddy round of prosperous years, 
The birth of new affections, and the charms 
That cluster round earth's favourites, there walk'd 
Still at her side the image of her sire. 
As in that hour, when his cold, glazing eye 
Met hers, and knew her not. When her full cup 
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance, 
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul 
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd joy. 



INDIAN NAMES. 237 



INDIAN NAMES. 



"How can the Red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, 
lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by the names of their giving ?" 



Ye say tliey all have pass'd away, 

That noble race and brave, 
That their light canoes have vanish'd 

From off the crested wave 
That mid the forests where they roam'd 

There rings no hunter's shout; 
But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'Tis where Ontario's billow 

Like Ocean's surge is curl'd; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tributes from the west, 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 



238 INDIAN NAMES. 



Ye say, their cone-like cabins, 

That cluster'd o'er the vale, 
Have fled away like wither' d leaves 

Before the autumn gale: 
But their memory liveth on your hills, 

Their baptism on your shore ; 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Mid all her young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves. 
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachuset hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart ; 
Monadnock on his forehead hoar 

Doth seal the sacred trust ; 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy their dust. 



FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 239 



FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 

Companion dear ! the hour draws nigh, 
The sentence speeds — to die, to die. 
So long in mystic union held, 
So close with strong embrace compell'd, 
How canst thou bear the dread decree, 
That strikes thy clasping nerves from me ? 
— To Him who on this mortal shore, 
The same encircling vestment wore, 
To Him I look, to Him I bend, 
To Him thy shuddering frame commend. 
— If I have ever caused thee pain. 
The throbbing breast, the burning brain, 
With cares and vigils turn'd thee pale. 
And scorn' d thee when thy strength did fail. 
Forgive ! forgive ! — thy task doth cease. 
Friend ! Lover ! — let us part in peace. 
If thou didst sometimes check my force. 
Or, trifling, stay Sine upward course, 



240 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 

Or lure from Heaven mj wavering trust; 
Or bow my drooping wing to dust, 
I blame thee not, the strife is done ; 
I knew thou wert the weaker one, 
The vase of earth, the trembling clod, 
Constrain' d to hold the breath of God. 
— Well hast thou in my service wrought; 
Thy brow hath mirror'd forth my thought; 
To wear my smile thy lip hath glow'd; 
Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flow'd; 
Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies 
Of sweetly varied melodies ; 
Thy hands my prompted deeds have done; 
Thy feet upon mine errands run — 
Yes, thou hast mark'd my bidding well. 
Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell. 

— Go to thy rest. A quiet bed 
Meek mother Earth with flowers shall spread, 
Where I no more thy sleep may break 
With fever' d dream, nor rudely wake 
Thy wearied eye. 

Oh, quit thy hold, 
For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, 
And long thy gasp and groan of pain 
Have bound me pitying in thy chain, 



FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 



241 



Though angels urge me hence to soar, 

Where I shall share thine ills no more, 

— Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain, 

Eemember, we shall meet again. 

Quell with this hope the victor's sting. 

And keep it as a signet-ring. 

When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast, 
And nought but ashes mark thy rest ; 
When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, 
And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark 
Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom. 
Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 
— Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, 
Nor spot nor stain nor wrinkle bear ; 
And I, with hovering wing elate, 
The bursting of thy bonds shall wait, 

And breathe the welcome of the sky 

"No more to part, no more to die, 
Co-heir of Immortality. ' ' 



S43 WINTERS FETE. 



WINTER'S FETE. 

I WOKE, and every lordling of the grove 
Was clad in diamonds, and the lowliest shrub 
Did wear its crest of brilliants gallantly. 
The swelling hillocks, with their woven vines, 
The far-seen forests and the broken hedge, 
Yea, every thicket gleam'd in bright array. 
As for some gorgeous fete of fairy-land. 

Ho ! jewel-keeper of the hoary North, 
Whence hast thou all these treasures ? Why, the mines 
Of rich Golconda, since the world was young. 
Would fail to furnish such a glorious show. 
The queen, who to her coronation comes 
With half a realm's exchequer on her head, 
Dazzleth the shouting crowd. But all the queens 
Who since old Egypt's buried dynasty 
Have here and there, amid the mists of time, 
Lifted their tiny sceptres — all the throng 



WINTER'S FETE. 243 



Of peeresses, wlio at some birth-night flaunt, 
Might boast no moiety of the gems thy hand 
So lavishly hath strewn o'er this old tree, 
Fast by my window. 

Every noteless thorn, 
E'en the coarse sumach and the bramble-bush, 
Do sport their diadems, as if, forsooth, 
Our plain republic in a single night 
Put forth such growth of aristocracy 
That no plebeian in the land was left 
Uncoroneted. Broider'd frost-work wraps 
Yon stunted pear-tree, whose ne'er ripen'd fruit, 
Acid and bitter, every truant boy 
Blamed with set teeth. Lo ! while I speak, its crown 
Kindleth in bossy crimson, and a stream 
Of Tyrian purple, blent with emerald spark. 
Floats round its rugged arms ; while here and there 
Gleams out a living sapphire, mid a knot 
Of trembling rubies, whose exquisite ray 
O'erpowers the astonish'd sight. 

One arctic queen, 
For one ice-palace, rear'd with fearful toil. 
And soon dissolving, scrupled not to pay 
Her vassal's life ; and emperors of old 
Have drain'd their cofi'ers for the people's gaze, 
Though but a single amphitheatre 



244 WINTERS FETE. 



Compress'd the crowd. But thou, whose potent wand 

Call'd forth such grand enchantment, swift as thought, 

And silent as a vision, and canst spread 

Its wondrous beauty to each gazing eje, 

Nor be the poorer, thou art scorn'd and bann'd 

Mid all thy beauty. Summer scantly sheds 

A few brief dew-drops for the sun to dry, 

And wins loud praise from every piping swain 

For the proud feat. 

Yet, certes, in these days, 
When wealth is so esteem'd that he who boasts 
The longest purse is sure the wisest man, 
Winter, who thus affords to sprinkle gems, 
Mile after mile, on all the landscape round, 
And decks his new-made peers in richer robes 
Than monarch ever gave, deserves more thanks 
Than to be call'd rude churl, and miser old. 
— I tell thee he's a friend ; and Love, who sits 
So quiet in the corner, whispering long 
In Beauty's ear, by the bright evening fire, 
Shall join my verdict. Yes, the King of storms, 
So long decried, hath revenue more rich 
Than sparkling diamonds. 

Look within thy heart. 
When the poor shiver in their snow-wreath' d cell. 
Or the sad orphan mourns, and if thou find 



WINTER'S FETE. 245 



An answering pitj, and a fervent deed 
Done in Christ's name, doubt not to be an heir 
Of that true wealth, which Winter hoardeth up 
To buj the soul a mansion with the blest. 



246 ANNA BOLEYN. 



ANNA BOLEYN. 



On seeing the axe with which Anna Boleyn was beheaded, still preserved in the Tower 

of London. 



Stern minister of fate severe, 

Who, drunk with beauty's blood, 
Defying time, dost linger here. 
And frown with ruffian visage drear, 
Like beacon on destruction's flood, — 
Say ! when ambition's gorgeous dream 
First lured thy victim's heart aside, 
Why, like a serpent, didst thou hide, 
Mid clustering flowers and robes of pride. 

Thy warning gleam ? 
Hadst thou but once arisen in vision dread, 
From glory's fearful clifi" her startled step had fled. 

Ah ! little she reck'd, when St. Edward's crown 
So heavily press'd her tresses fair, 
That, with sleepless wrath, its thorns of care 

Would rankle within her couch of down ! 



ANNA BO LEY N. 247 



To the tyrant's bower, 

In her beauty's power, 
She came as a lamb to the lion's lair. 
As the light bird cleaves the fields of air, 
And carols blithe and sweet, while Treachery weaves its snare. 

Think ! what were her pangs as she traced her fate 
On that changeful monarch's brow of hate ? 
What were the thoughts which, at midnight hour, 
Throng'd o'er her soul, in yon dungeon tower ? 
Regret, with pencil keen. 
Retouch' d the deepening scene : 
Gay France, which bade with sunny skies 
Her careless childhood's pleasures rise ; 
Earl Percy's love, his youthful grace ; 
Her gallant brother's fond embrace ; 
Her stately father's feudal halls. 
Where proud heraldic annals deck'd the ancient walls. 

Wrapt in the scafi"old's gloom, 
Brief tenant of that living tomb 
She stands ! — the life-blood chills her heart, 
And her tender glance from earth does part ; 
But her infant daughter's image fair 
In the smile of innocence is there, 
It clings to her soul mid its last despair ; 



348 ANNA BOLEYN. 



And the desolate queen is doom'd to know 
How far a mother's grief transcends a martyr's wo. 

Say ! did prophetic light 
Illume her darkening sight, 
Painting the future island-queen, 
Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising, 
Bright from blood-stain' d ashes rising. 
Wise, energic, bold, serene ? 
Ah no ! the scroll of time 
Is seal'd; and hope sublime 
Rests but on those far heights which mortals may not climb. 

The dying prayer, with trembling fervour, speeds 
For that false monarch by whose will she bleeds ; 
For him, who, listening on that fatal morn. 
Hears her death-signal o'er the distant lawn 

From the deep cannon speaking. 
Then springs to mirth, and winds his bugle-horn, 
And riots while her blood is reeking : — 
For him she prays, in seraph tone, 

" Oh ! be his sins forgiven ! 
Who raised me to an earthly throne, 
And sends me now, from prison lone, 
To be a saint in heaven." 



iPWr 




'■ Often- liaTe we hush'd 
TTie shnllist eclio of oia iLoliday; 
TLomiig oxii mirtli to leTeience as he pass'd, 
And eager to lecqid'one faTormg smile, 
Or wordpaterTLal." 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 249 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 

I DO remember him. His saintly voice, 
So duly lifted in the house of God, 
Comes, with the far-off wing of infant years, 
Like solemn music. Often have we hush'd 
The shrillest echo of our holiday, 
Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass'd. 
And eager to record one favouring smile. 
Or word paternal. 

At the bed of death 
I do remember him; when one, who bore 
For me a tender love, did feel that pang 
Which makes the features rigid, and the eye 
Like a fix'd, glassy orb. Her head was white 
With many winters, but her furrow' d brow 
To me was beautiful ; for she had cheer'd 
My lonely childhood with a changeless stream 
Of pure benevolence. His earnest tone, 
Girding her from the armory of God 
To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale 



250 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 

Through which she walk'd, doth linger round me still; 

And by that gush of bitter tears, when first 

Grief came into my bosom — by that thrill 

Of agony, which from the open grave 

Rose wildly forth — I do remember him, 

The comforter and friend. 

When Fancy's smile, 
Gilding youth's scenes, and promising to bring 
The curtain' d morrow fairer than to-day, 
Enkindled wilder gayety than fits 
Beings so frail, how oft his funeral prayer 
Over some shrouded sleeper made a pause 
In folly's song, or warn'd her roving eye 
That all man's glory was the flower of grass 
Beneath the mower's scythe. 

His fourscore years 
Sat lightly on him ; for his heart was glad. 
E'en to its latest pulse, with that fond love, 
Home-nurtured and reciprocal, which girds 
And garners up, in sorrow' and in joy. 
— I was not with the weepers when the hearse 
Stood all expectant at his pleasant door, 
And other voices from his pulpit said 
That he was not: but yet the echo'd dirge 
Of that sad organ, in its sable robe. 
Made melancholy music in my dreams. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. 251 

— And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew 
Baptismal on mine infant head, and lead 
To the Redeemer's sacred board a guest 
Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength 
From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid 
Unto the early seeker. When again 
My native spot unfolds that pictured chart 
Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold, 
Rocks, woods, and waters exquisitely blent, 
Thy cordial welcome I no more shall hear, 
Father and guide ; nor can I hope to win 
Thy glance from glory's mansion, while I strew 
This wild-flower garland on thine honour'd tomb. 



252 FALLS OF THE YANTIC. 



FALLS OF THE YANTIC. 

Hills, rocks, and waters ! here ye lie, 
And o'er ye spreads the same blue sky, 

As when, in early days, 
My childish foot your cliffs essay' d. 
My wondering eye your depth survey'd. 

Where the vex'd torrent stays. 

O'er bolder scenes mine age hath stray'd 
By floods that make your light cascade 

Seem as an infant's play ; 
Yet dearer is it still to me. 
Than all their boasted pageantry 

That charms the traveller's way. 

For here, enchanted, side by side. 
With me would many a playmate glide 

When school-day's task was o'er. 
Who deem'd this world, from zone to zone. 
Had nought of power or wonder known 

Like thy resounding shore. 



FALLS OF THE Y AN TIC. 253 

Light-hearted group ! I see ye still, 
For Memory's pencil, at her will, 

Doth tint ye bright and rare ; 
Red lips, from whence glad laughter rang, 
Elastic limbs that tireless sprang, 

And curls of sunny hair. 

I will not ask if change or care 

Have coldly marr'd those features fair ; 

For, by myself, 1 know 
We cannot till life's evening keep 
The flowers that on its dewy steep 

At earliest dawn did blow. 

Yet, lingering round this hallow'd spot, 
I call them, though they answer not. 

For some have gone their way. 
To sleep that sleep which none may break, 
Until the resurrection wake 

The prisoners from their clay. 

But thou, most fair and fitful stream, 
First prompter of my musing dream, 

Still lovingly dost smile. 
And, heedless of the conflict hoarse 
With the rude rocks that bar thy course, 

My lonely walk beguile. 

X 



•254 FALLS OF THE YANTIC. 



Still thou art changed, mj favourite scene ! 
For man hath stolen thy cliffs between, 

And torn thy grassy sod ; 
And bade the intrusive mill-wheel dash, 
And many a ponderous engine crash. 

Where Nature dream' d of God. 

Yet to the spot where first we drew 

Our breath, we turn unchanged and true, 

As to a nurse's breast ; 
And count it, e'en till hoary age. 
The Mecca of our pilgrimage, 

Of all the earth most blest. 

And so, thou cataract, strangely wild. 
My own loved Yantic's wayward child, 

That still dost foam and start; 
Though slight thou art, I love thee well. 
And, pleased, the lay thy praise doth tell, 

Which gushes from the heart. 



WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 255 



WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 

Deal gentlj thou, whose hand hath won 

The joung bird from its nest away, 
Where careless, 'neath a vernal sun, 

She sweetly carol 'd day by day. 
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve, 

From whence her timid wing doth soar; 
They pensive list at hush of eve. 

Yet hear her gushing song no more. 

Deal gently with her ; thou art dear, 

Beyond what vestal lips have told, 
And, like a lamb from fountains clear, 

She turns confiding to thy fold; 
She, round thy sweet domestic bower. 

The wreath of changeless love shall twine, 
Watch for thy step at vesper hour, 

And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 



256 WIDOW AT H E Px DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 

Deal gently thou, when, far away, 

Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove. 
Nor let thy tender care decay — 

The soul of woman lives in love. 
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, 

Unconscious, from her eyelids break, 
Be pitiful, and soothe the fear 

That man's strong heart may ne'er partake. 

A mother yields her gem to thee, 

On thy true breast to sparkle rare ; 
She places 'neath thy household tree 

The idol of her fondest care ; 
And by thy trust to be forgiven, 

When judgment wakes in terror wild, 
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven, 

Deal gently with the widow's child. 



MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 25' 



MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 

No word ! no sound ! But yet a solemn rite 
Is consummated in yon festive hall. 
Hearts are in treaty, and the soul doth take 
That oath, which, unabsolved, must stand till death, 
With icy seal, doth stamp the scroll of life. 
No word ! no sound ! But still a holy man 
With strong and graceful gesture doth impose 
The irrevocable vow, and with meek prayp^ ' 
Present it to be registered in heaven. 

Methinks this silence heavily doth brood 
Upon the spirit. Say, thou flower-crown' d bride, 
What means the sigh which from that ruby lip 
Doth 'scape, as if to seek some element 
Which angels breathe ? 

Mute ! mute ! 'tis passing strange ! 
Like necromancy all. And yet, 'tis well ; 
For the deep ti-ust Avith which a maiden casts 
Her all of earth, perchance her all of heaven, 



258 MARRIAGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. 

Into a mortal's hand, — the confidence 
With which she turns in every thought to him, 
Her more than brother, and her next to God, — 
Hath never yet been shadow' d forth in sound, 
Or told in language. 

So, ye voiceless pair, 
Pass on in hope. For ye may build as firm 
Your silent altar in each other's hearts. 
And catch the sunshine through the clouds of time 
As cheerily, as though the pomp of speech 
Did herald forth the deed. And when ye dwell 
Where flowers fade not, and death no treasured link 
Hath power to sever more, ye need not mourn 
The ear sequestrate, and the tuneless tongue ; 
For there the eternal dialect of love 
Is the free breath of every happy soul. 



THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 259 



THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 

The young babe sat on its mother's knee, 
Shaking its coral and bells with glee, 
When Hope drew near, with a seraph smile, 
To press the lips that had breathed no guile, 
Nor spoke the words of sorrow ; 
Its little sister brought a flower, 
And Hope, still lingering nigh 
With sunny tress and sparkling eye, 
Whisper'd of one in a brighter bower 
It might pluck for itself to-morrow. 

The boy came in from the wintry snow, 
And mused by the parlour-fire ; 

But ere the evening lamps did glow, 

A stranger came, and, bending low. 
Closely scann'd his ruddy brow. 

"What is that in your hand?" she said; 

"My New- Year's Gift, with its covers red." 



260 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 

"Bring hither the book, my boy, and see, 
The magic spell of Memory. 
That page hath gold, and a way I'll find 
To lock it safe in your docile mind ; 
For books have honey, the sages say, 
That is sweet to the taste when the hair is gray." 

The youth at midnight sought his bed, 

But, ere he closed his eyes, 
Two forms drew near with gentle tread, 

In meek and saintly guise. 
One struck a lyre of wondrous power, 

With thrilling music fraught. 
That chain' d the flying summer hour, 

And charm'd the listener's thought; 
For still would its tender cadence be, 

" Follow me ! follow me ! 
And every morn a smile shall bring, 
As sweet as the merry lay I sing." — 
She ceased, and with a serious air 

The other made reply, 
" Shall he not also be my care ? 
May not I his journey share ? . 

Sister ! sister ! tell me why ? 
Need Memory e'er with Hope contend ? 
Doth not the virtuous soul still find in both a friend?" 



THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 261 

The youth beheld the strife, 

And eagerly replied, 
" Come, both, and be my guide, 
And gild the path of life;" 
So he gave to each a brother's kiss, 
And laid him down, and his dream was bliss. 

The man came forth to run his race, 
And ever when the morning light 
Roused him from the trance of night. 
When, singing from her nest. 
The lark went up with dewy breast, 
Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace ; 
And, as a mother cheers her son. 
She girded his daily harness on. 
But when the star of eve, from weary care, 
Bade him to his home repair, 
When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born 
The cricket wound its tiny horn, 
Sober Memory spread her board 
With knowledge richly stored. 
And supp'd with him, and like a guardian bless'd 
His nightly rest. 

The old man sat in his elbow-chair. 
His locks were thin and gray. 



262 THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 

Memory, that faithful friend, was there. 

And he in querulous tone did saj, 
" Hast thou not lost, with careless key, 
Something that I have intrusted to thee ?" 

Her pausing answer was sad and low, 
"It may be so ! It may be so ! 
The lock of my casket is worn and weak. 
And Time with a plunderer's eye doth seek; 

Something I miss, but I cannot say 

What it is he hath stolen away. 

For only tinsel and trifles spread 

Over the alter'd path we tread ; 
But the gems thou didst give me when life was new, 

Here they are, all told and true. 
Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue." 

But while in grave debate, 
Mournful, and ill at ease, they sate, 
Finding treasures disarranged, 
Blaming the fickle world, though they themselves were 
changed, 
Hope on a buoyant wing did soar. 
Which folded underneath her robe she wore, 
And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight, 
And jeoparded its strength, in a bold, heavenward flight. 



THE FRIENDS OF MAN. 263 

The dying lay on his couch of pain, 

And his soul went forth to the angel-train ; 

Yet when Heaven's gate its golden bars undrew 

Memory walk'd that portal through, 
And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye. 
Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky. 

But Hope that glorious door 
Pass'd not : it was not hers to dwell 
Where pure desires to full fruition swell. 

Her ministry was o'er : 
To cheer earth's pilgrim toward the sky, 
To cleanse the tear-drop from his eye, 
Was hers, — then fo immortal Joy 

Resign her brief employ. 
Break her sweet harp, and die. 



264 TO A GOOSE. 



TO A GOOSE. 

I CANNOT bear to hear thee slander'd, Goose ! 
It irketh me to see the truant boys 
Pause in their play, and cast a stone at thee, 
And call thee foolish. 

Do those worthies know 
That when old Rome had let the ruffian Gauls 
Tread on her threshold of vitality, 
And all her sentinels were comatose. 
Thy clarion-call did save her ? Mighty strange 
To call thee fool ! 

I think thou'rt dignified 
And portly in thy bearing, and in all 
The duties and proprieties of life 
Art quite a pattern. Yet the duck may quack, 
The turkey gabble, and the guinea-hen 
Keep up a piercing and perpetual scream, 
And all is well ; but if thou ope thy beak, 
"jP2e, silly creature!" 

Yet I'm sure thou'st done 



TO A GOOSE. 265 



Many a clever and obliging deed; 

And more than this, thou from thy wing dost spare 

An outcast feather, which hath woke the world. 

And made it wiser. Yea, the modest quill 

Doth take its quiet stand behind the press, 

And, like a prompter, tell it what to say. 

But still we never praise the goose, who gave 

This precious gift. Yet what can fill its place ? 

Think of the clumsy stylus, how absurd ! 

I know, indeed, that smart metallic pens 

Have undertaken to speculate at large ; 

But I eschew them all, and prophesy 

Goose-quills will be immortal as the art 

To which they minister. 'Twere meet for me, 

Though all besides were dumb, to fondly laud 

The instrument that from my childhood up 

Hath been my solace and my chosen friend 

In hours of loneliness. 

I'd fain propose 
That, mid the poultry in the farmer's yard, 
The goose should wear a ducal coronet, 
If our republic would but authorize 
Aught like an order of nobility. 
Yet, sure, I'll institute a simple claim 
For justice long withheld. I ask my peers, 
The erudite and learned in the law, 



266 TO A GOOSE. 



Why the recusant owl is singled out 
As Wisdom's bird ? If blind Mythology, 
Who on her fingers scarcely knew to count 
Her thirty thousand gods, should groping make 
Such error, 'tis not strange. But we, who skill 
To ride the steam, and have a goodly hope 
To ride the lightning too, need we be ruled 
By vacillating Delphos ? or enticed 
To sanction her mistakes ? 

The aforesaid owl, 
With his dull, staring eyes, what hath he done 
To benefit mankind ? Moping all day 
Amid some dodder'd oak, and then at night, 
With hideous hooting and wild flapping wings, 
Scaring the innocent child. What hath he done 
To earn a penny, or to make the world 
Richer in any way ? I doubt if he 
E'en gets an honest living. Who can say 
Whether such midnight rambles, none know where, 
Are for his credit? Yet the priceless crown 
Of wisdom he, in symbol and in song. 
Unrighteously hath worn. 

But times have changed, 
Most reverend owl ! Utility bears rule. 
And the shrewd spirit of a busy age 
Dotes not on things antique, nor pays respect 



TO A GOOSE. 267 



To hoary hairs, but counts it loss of time 

To honour whatsoever fails to yield 

A fat per centage. Yet thou'rt not ashamed 

To live a gentleman, nor bronze thy claw 

With manual labour, stupidly content 

To be a burden on community. 

— Meantime, the worthy and hard-working goose 
Hath rear'd up goslings, fed us with her flesh, 
Lull'd us to sleep upon her softest down, 
And with her quills maintain'd the lover's lore. 
And saved the tinsel of the poet's brain. 
— Dear goose, thou'rt greatly wrong' d. 

I move the owl 
Be straightway swept from the usurper's seat, 
And thou forthwith be voted for, to fill 
Minerva's arms. 

The flourish of a pen 
Hath saved or lost a realm; hath signed the bond 
That made the poor man rich; reft from the prince 
His confiscated wealth, and sent him forth 
A powerless exile ; for the prisoner bade 
The sunbeam tremble through his iron bars 
The last, last time ; or changed the cry of war 
To blessed peace. How base, to scorn the bird 
Whose cast-off feather hath done this, and more. 



268 ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN. 



ON THE ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO 
THE UNION. 

Come in, little sister, so healthful and fair, 
Come take in our father's best parlour a share ; 
You've been kept long enough at the nurse's, I trow. 
Where the angry lakes roar and the northern winds blow ; 
Come in, we've a pretty large household, 'tis true, 
But the twenty-five children can make room for you. 

A present, I see, for our sire you have brought, 
His dessert to embellish ; how kind was the thought ! 
A treat of ripe berries, both crimson and blue, 
And wild flowers to stick in his button-hole too. 
The rose from your prairie, the nuts from your tree; 
What a good little sister ! come hither to me. 

You've a dowry besides very cunningly stored, 
To fill a nice cupboard, or spread a broad board, — 
Detroit, Ypsilanti, Ann Arbour, and more; 
For the youngest, methinks, quite a plentiful store ; 



ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN. 269 



You're a prog, I perceive — it is true to the letter, 
And jour sharp Yankee sisters "will like you the better. 

But where are your Indians — so feeble and few ? 
So fali'n from the heights where their forefathers grew! 
From the forests they fade ; o'er the waters that bore 
The names of their baptism, they venture no more ; 
soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar, 
Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star. 

Those ladies who sit on the sofa so high, 
Are the stateliest dames of our family. 
Your thirteen old sisters, — don't treat them with scorn, 
They were notable spinsters before you were born ; 
Many stories they know, most instructive to hear, — 
Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear. 

They can teach you the names of those great ones to spell, 
Who stood at the helm when the war-tempest fell ; , 
They will show you the writing that gleam' d to the sky 
In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July, 
When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red, 
And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead. 

There are some who may call them both proud and old, 
And say they usurp what they cannot hold ; 



270 ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN. 

Perhaps, their bright locks have a sprinkle of gray, 
But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray, 
For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear, 
Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear. 

They, indeed, bore the burden and heat of the day, 
But you've as good right to your penny as they ; 
Though the price of our freedom they better have known, 
Since they paid for it out of their purses alone ; 
Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween. 
So, hold up your head with the " Old Thirteen." 



STRATFORD UPON AVON. 271 



STEATFORD UPON AVON. 

What nurtured Shakspeare mid these village-shades, 
Making a poor deer-stalking lad a- king 
In the broad realm of mind ? 

I question'd much 
Whatever met my view, — the holly-hedge, 
The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born, 
And the pleach'd avenue of limes that led 
To the old church. And, pausing there, I mark'd 
The mossy efflorescence on the stones, 
Which, kindling in the sunbeam, taught me how 
Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life, 
And how another race of tiny roots, 
The fathers of the future, should compel 
From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment. 
Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere 
Made ancient buttress and grim battlement 
Their nursing-mothers. 

But again I ask'd, 
"What nurtured Shakspeare?" The rejoicing birds 



272 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 



Wove a wild song, whose burden seem'd to be, 
He was their pupil when he chose, and knew 
Their secret maze of melody to wind, 
Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain 
With careless hand. 

The timid flowerets said, 
" He came among us like a sleepless bee. 
And all those pure and rarest essences. 
Concocted by our union with the skies. 
Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide, 
He rifled for himself and bore away." 

— The winds careering in their might replied, 
"Upon our wings he rode, and visited 
The utmost stars. We could not shake him off. 
E'en on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand, 
As on a courser's mane, and made them work 
With all their countless hues his Avondrous will." 

And then meek Avon raised a murmuring voice, 
What time the Sabbath chimes came pealing sweet 
Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft 
Along those banks he wander'd, pacing slow, 
As if to read the depths. 

Ere I had closed 
My question^. ^., the ready rain came down, 



STRATFORD UPON AVON. 273 

And every pearl-drop as it kiss'd the turf 
Said, " We have heen his teachei'S. When we fell 
Pattering among the vine leaves, he would list 
Our lessons as a student, nor despise 
Our simplest lore." 

And then the bow burst forth. 
That strong love-token of the Deity 
Unto a drowning worM. Each prismed ray 
Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and help'd 
To tint the robe in which his thought was wrapp'd 
For its first cradle-sleep. 

Then twilight came 
In her gray robe, and told a tender tale 
Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew 
Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon, 
Riding in state upon her silver car. 
Confess' d she saw him oft, through checkering shades. 
Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side, 
Linking their young imaginings, like chains 
Of pearl and diamond. 

Last, the lowly grave- 
Shakspeare's own grave — sent forth a hollow tone, 
" The heart within my casket read itself, 
And from that inward wisdom learn'd to scan 
The hearts of other men. It ponder'd long 
Amid those hermit cells where thought is born, 

18 



274 STRATFORD UPON AVON. 



Explored the roots of passion, and the founts 

Of sympathy, and at each seal'd recess 

Knock'd, until mysterjr fled. Hence her loved bard 

Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue 

And every season ; and the human soul, 

Owning his power, shall at his magic touch 

Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires." 



MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 275 



MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 



Borne upon the ocean's foam, 
Far from native land and home, 
Midnight's curtain, dense with wrath, 
Brooding o'er our venturous path, 
While the mountain wave is rolling, 
And the ship's hell faintly tolling: 
Saviour ! on the boisterous sea. 
Bid us rest secure in Thee. 

Blast and surge, conflicting noarse, 
Sweep us on with headlong force ; 
And the bark, which tempests urge, 
Moans and trembles at their scourge : 
Yet, should wildest tempests swell. 
Be thou near, and all is well. 
Saviour ! on the stormy sea. 
Let us find repose in Thee. 



276 MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 

Hearts there are with love that burn 
When to us afar they turn ; 
Eyes that show the rushing tear 
If our utter'd names they hear: 
Saviour ! o'er the faithless main, 
Bring us to those homes again, 
As the trembler, touch' d by Thee, 
Safely trod the treacherous sea. 

Wrecks are darkly spread below, 
Where with lonely keel we go; 
Gentle brows and bosoms brave 
Those abysses richly pave : 
If beneath the briny deep 
We, with them, should coldly sleep, 
Saviour ! o'er the whelming sea. 
Take our ransom'd souls to Thee. 



THE TOMB. 277 



THE TOMB 



"So parted they ; the angel up to Heaven, 
And Adam to his bower." Milton. 



This is the parting place; yon turf-bound roof, 
And marble door, where tenants may not hope 
To enter and return. If earth's poor gold 
E'er clave unto thee, here unlade thyself; 
For thou didst bring none with thee to this world, 
Nor mayst thou bear it hence. Honours hast thou, 
Ambition's shadowy gatherings ? Shred them loose 
To the four winds, their natural element. 
Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties 
Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes ? 
And was each wailing from their feeble lip 
A thorn to pierce thee ? every infant smile 
And budding hope, full springs of ecstasy ? 
Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them 
A parent art no more. Wert thou a wife ? 
And was the arm on which thy spirit lean'd 

2 A 



2:r the tomb. 



Faithful in all thy need ? Yet must thou leave 
This fond protection, and pursue alone 
Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death. 
Friendship's free intercourse, — the promised joys 
Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love, — 
The cherish 'd sympathies which every year 
Struck some new root within thy yielding breast, 
Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager 
Unto the land of spirits. 

Yea, even more ! 
Lay down the body ! Hast thou worshipp'd it 
With vanity's sweet incense, and wild waste 
Of precious time ? Did beauty bring it gifts, 
The lily brow, the full resplendent eye, 
The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power 
Woke man's idolatry ? The loan is o'er, 
Dust turns to dust. 

Yet the lone soul retains 
One blessed trophy ; if its span below 
Secured the palm of Christ's atoning love : 
For that shall win an entrance when it stands 
A pilgrim at Heaven's gate. 



SHOW US THE FATHER. 279 



"SHOW US THE FATHER." 

John iv. 8. 

Have ye not seen Him, when through parted snows 
Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green ? 

When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, 
And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen ? 

When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, 

Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen him there ? 

Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye. 

Through its bright sapphire-windows, shows the mind ? 

When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh. 

Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined ? 

Saw ye not Him, the author of our trust. 

Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust ? 

Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill 

Casts off its icy chains and leaps away ? 
In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill ? 

In song of birds at break of summer's day ? 



280 SHOWUSTHEFATHER. 

Or in the ocean's everlasting roar, 

Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore ? 

Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn, 

When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, 

When in the heart the holy thought is born, 

And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast, 

Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer 

Swell'd out in tones of praise, announcing God was there ? 

Show us the Father ! If ye fail to trace 

His chariot where the stars majestic roll. 
His pencil mid earth's loveliness and grace. 

His presence in the Sabbath of the soul, 
How can you see Him till the day of dread. 
When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read ? 



NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 281 



NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 



' The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, 
ciMracterless, uninscribed" 



And who shall write thine epitaph, thou man 
Of mystery and might ? 

Shall orphan hands 
Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords? 
Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear 
Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, 
As the keen torture of the water-drop 
Doth wear the sentenced brain ? 

Shall countless ghosts 
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame. 
With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy. 
Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd, 
And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer 
Given at the cannon's mouth ? 

Thou who didst sit 
Like eagle on the apex of the globe. 
And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes, 



282 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 

As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass, 
Say, art thou sepulchred in yon far isle. 
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner 
Descries mid ocean's foam ? Thou who didst hew 
A pathway for thy host above the cloud. 
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work- crown 
Of the throned Alps, — why dost thou sleep, unmark'd 
E'en by such slight memento as the hind 
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone ? 

Bid the throng 
Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, 
Breathing thy thunders on the battle-field. 
Return and deck thy monument. Those forms, 
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew'd, 
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone. 
Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise, 
As in the vision that the prophet saw, 
Each dry bone to its fellow, or in heaps 
Should pile their pillar' d dust, might not the stars 
Deem that again the puny pride of man 
Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth, 
To dwell with them ? But here, unwept, thou art, 
Like some dead lion in his thicket-lair. 
With neither living man, nor spectre lone, 
To trace thine epitaph. 

Invoke the climes 



NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 283 

That served as playthings in thj desperate game 
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew' d 
To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt Famine fed 
Upon their yitals. France ! who gave so free 
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw 
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth, 
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. 
Thou, too, whose pride adorn'd'dead Caesar's tomb, 
And pour'd high requiem o'er the tyrant train 
Who ruled thee to thy cost, lend us thine arts 
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence 
To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown 
Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list 
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat 
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome. 
Turn, Austria ! iron-brow' d and stern of heart, 
And on his monument to whom thou gav'st 
In ange'r battle, and in craft a bride, 
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away. 
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name, 
Like the rein'd war-horse at the trumpet-blast, 
And take her witness to that fame which soars 
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt 
Of Scandinavia's madman. 

From the shades 
Of letter' d ease, Germany ! come forth 



284 NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 

With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, 

Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints 

Of deeper character than bold romance 

Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream, 

Or history trusted to her sibyl leaves. 

Hail, lotus-crown'd ! in thy green childhood fed 

By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh and the shepherd kings. 

Hast thou no trait of him who drench'd thy sands 

At Jaffa and Aboukir ? when the flight 

Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong 

To the accusing Spirit ? 

Glorious isle ! 
Whose thrice-enwreathed chain, Promethean like, 
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask 
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. 
Ho ! fur-clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost, 
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance. 
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain. 
And give the last line of our epitaph. 

But there was silence. Not a sceptred hand 
Received the challenge. 

From the misty deep 
Rise, island-spirits ! like those sisters three, 
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life. 
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write 



NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 285 

That eulogy wliicli haughtier climes deny. 

Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms, 

And cheer'd his exile with the name of king, 

And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb ; 

Come, twine some bud of household tenderness, 

Some tender leaflet, nursed with nature's tears, 

Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock' d 

His cradle at Ajaccio, turn'd away; 

And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave 

Plunged her slight annal with the haste of fear; 

And lone St. Helena, heart-sick, and gray 

'Neath rude Atlantic's scourging, bade the moon, 

With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze 

To an unhonour'd tomb. 

Then Earth arose. 
That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, 
And, to the echo'd question — " 7F7w shall write 
Napoleons epitaph f — as one who broods 
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd — '-None." 



286 COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 



COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 

The ships from young Columbia's shore, 

As fleet tliey are, and free, 
As those from haughtier realms that boast 

Dominion o'er the sea. 
As gallantly their banners float, 

As keen their lightnings fly, 
And braver hearts than there are found 

Beat not beneath the sky. 

White as the glancing sea-bird's wing 

Their swelling sails expand, 
Beside the bright Egean isles, 

Or green Formosa's strand, 
Or where the sparse Norwegian pine 

A sudden summer shares, 
Or Terra del Fuego's torch 

Amid the tempest glares. 



COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 287 

Unmoved their trackless course they hold 

Though vengeful Boreas roars, 
And make their port on stranger-coasts 

Or undiscover'd shores. 
Rude people of a foreign speech 

Have learn' d their cheering cry, 
"Land ho !— Aloft !"— and " Bear-a-hand !" 

With the ready tar's reply. 

From zone to zone — from pole to pole, 

Where'er in swift career 
The venturous keel a path explores, 

Our Yankee sailors steer. 
The white bear, on his field of ice. 

Hath seen their signals toss'd ; 
And the great whale, old Ocean's king. 

Doth know them to his cost. 

The spices from the Indian isles, 

The plant of China's care, 
The cane's sweet blood from tropic climes 

Their merchant-vessels bear. 
Wherever Commerce points his wand, 

They mount the crested waves, 
And link together every sea 

The rolling globe that laves. 



288 COLUMBIA'S SHIPS. 

Still nearest to the Antarctic gate 

Our daring seamen press, 
Where storm-wrapp'd Nature thought to dwell 

In hermit loneliness ; 
"Whose masts are those, so white with frost, 

Where fearful icebergs shine?" 
My country from her watch-tower look'd, 

And answer' d—" They are mine !" 

Columbia's ships ! With dauntless prow 

The tossing deep they tread ; 
The pirates of the Libyan sands 

Have felt their prowess dread: 
And the British lion's lordly mane 

Their victor might confess'd. 
For well their nation's faith and pride 

They guard on Ocean's breast. 

When strong Oppression fiercely frowns, 

Her eagle rears his crest, 
• And means no bird of air shall pluck 

His pinions or his breast ; 
And brighter on the threatening cloud 

Gleam out her stars of gold. 
Huzza ! for young Columbia's ships, 

And for her seamen bold. 



ALPINE FLOWERS. 289 



ALPINE FLOWERS. 

Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs, 
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
Whence are ye ? 

Did some white-Aving'd messenger, 
On mercy's mission, trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows, 
And, breathing on the callous icicles, 
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye ? 

Tree nor shrub 
Dare the drear atmosphere ; no polar-pine 
Uplifts a veteran front; yet there ye stand. 
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice, 
And looking up with steadfast eye to Him, 
Who bids ye bloom unblanch'd amid the realm . 
Of desolation. 

Man who, panting, toils 
O'er slippery steeps, or treads the dizzy verge 
Of yawning gulfs, from whence the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, — looks shuddering up 

19 2B 



290 ALPINE FLOWERS. 



And marks ye in your placid loveliness, 
Fearless yet frail; and, clasping his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencil' d beauty. Mid the pomp 
Of mountain-summits rushing toward the sky. 
And chaining the wrapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind ye, drooping, to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale, 
And freer dreams of heaven. 



THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 291 



THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 



The solemn mockery of the trial of the dead, which was first permitted in Scotland 
about the fourteenth century, was exhibited in the case of George Gordon, Earl of 
Huntley, in the year 1664. After this judicial process, the body was remoTed from Iloly- 
rood, and interred at Elgin Cathedral, the burial-place of his family. 



The spears at Corrichie were bright, 
Where, with a stern command. 

The Earl of Huntley ranged his host 
Upon their native strand. 

From many a Highland strath and glen 
They at his summons came, 

A stalwart band of fearless men. 
Who counted war a game. 

Then, from Edina's royal court 
Fierce Murray northward sped, 

And rush'd his envied foe to meet 
In battle sharp and dread. 



292 THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 

They met, they closed, they struggled sore, 
Like waves when tempests blow, 

The slogan-music high in air, 
The sound of groans below. 

They broke, they wheel'd, they charged again, 
Till on the ensanguined ground 

The noble Gordon lifeless lay. 

Transpierced with many a wound. 

Long from her tower his Lady look'd : 

"I see a dusky cloud, 
And there, behold ! comes floating high 

Earl Huntley's banner proud." 

Then, deep she sigh'd, for rising mist 

Involved her aching sight ; 
'Twas but an autumn-bough that mock'd 

Her chieftain's pennon bright. 

His mother by the ingle sate, 

Her head upon her knee, 
And murmur'd low in hollow tone, 

"He'll ne'er come back to thee." 



THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 293 



" Hist, Ladj, mother ! hear I not 
Steed-tramp and pibroch-roar ? 

As when the victor-surf doth tread 
Upon a rockj shore?" 

Not toward the loop-hole raised her head 

That woman wise and hoar, 
But whisper' d in her troubled soul, 

" Thy Lord returns no more !" 

"A funeral march is in my ear, 

A scatter'd host I see," 
And, straining wild, her sunken eye 

Gazed out on vacancy. 

Back to their homes, the Gordon clan 

Stole with despairing tread, 
While to the vaults of Holyrood 

Was borne their chieftain dead. 

Exulting foemen bore him there. 

While lawless vassals jeer'd. 
Nor spared to mock the haughty brow 

Whose living frown they fear'd. 



294 THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 

No earth upon his corse they strew' d, 

At no rich shrine inurn'd, 
But heavenward, as the warrior fell, 

His noble forehead turn'd. 

Months fled ; and while, from castled height 

To cot in lowly dell, 
O'er Corrichie's disastrous day 

The tears of Scotland fell, 

Behold, a high and solemn court 
With feudal pomp was graced. 

And at the bar, in princely robes, 
A muffled chieftain placed. 

No glance his veiled face might scan. 
Though throngs beside him prest ; 

The Gordon plume his brow adorn' d, 
Its tartan wrapp'd his breast. 

" Lord George of Gordon, Huntley's earl ! 

High-treason taints thy name ; 
For God, and for thy country's cause, 

Defend thine ancient fame ; 



THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 295 

" Make oath upon thine honour's seal, 

Heaven's truth unblenching tell!" 
1^0 lip he moved, no hand he raised, 

And dire that silence fell. 

No "word he spake, though thrice adjured ; 

Then came the sentence drear: 
"Poul traitor to thy queen and realm. 

Our laws denounce thee here." 

They stripp'd him of his cloak of state, 

They bared his helmed head, 
Though the pale judges inly quaked 

Before the ghastly dead. 

Light thing to him, that earthly doom 

Or man's avenging rod. 
Who, in the land of souls, doth bide 

The audit of his God. 

Before his face the crowd drew back, 

As from sepulchral gloom. 
And sternest veterans shrank to breathe 

The vapour of the tomb. 



296 THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 

And now, this mockery of the dead 

With hateful pageant o'er, 
They yield him to his waiting friends 

Who throng the palace door. 

And on their sad procession press'd, 

Unresting day and night, 
To where mid Elgin's towers they mark 

The fair cathedral's height. 

And there, by kindred tears bedew'd, 
Beneath its hallow' d shade, 

With midnight torch and chanted dirge, 
Their fallen chief they laid, 

Fast by king Duncan's mouldering dust, 

Whose locks of silver hue 
Were stain'd, as Avon's swan hath sung, 

With murder's bloody dew. 

So, rest thou here, thou Scottish earl 
Of ancient fame and power. 

No more a valiant host to guide 
In battle's stormy hour. 



THE TRIAL OF THE DEAD. 297 

Yea, rest thee here, thou Scottish earl, 

Until that daj of dread, 
Which to eternity consigns 

The trial of the dead. 



29S 



BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 



BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 

A VOICE amid the desert. 

Not of him 
Who, in rough garments clad, and locust-fed, 
Cried to the sinful multitude, and claim'd 
Fruits of repentance, with the lifted scourge 
Of terror and reproof. A milder guide. 
With gentler tones, doth teach the listening throng. 
Benignant pity moved him as he saw 
The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch 
The springs of every nature. The high lore 
Of heaven he humbled to the simplest child. 
And in the guise of parable allured 
The sluggish mind to follow truth, and live. 

They whom the thunders of the law had stunn'd 
Woke to the gospel's melody with tears ; 
And the glad Jewish mother held her babe 
High in her arms, that its young eye might greet 
Jesus of Nazareth. 



BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 299 

It was SO still, 
Though thousands cluster' d there, that not a sound 
Brake the strong spell of eloquence which held 
The wilderness in chains, save now and then, 
As the gale freshen'd, came the murmur'd speech 
Of distant billows, chafing with the shores 
Of the Tiberian sea. 

Day wore apace, 
Noon hasted, and the lengthening shadows brought 
The unexpected eve. They linger' d still, 
Eyes fix'd, and lips apart; the very breath 
Constrain'd, lest some escaping sigh might break 
The tide of knowledge, sweeping o'er their souls 
Like a strange, raptured dream. They heeded not 
The spent sun closing at the curtain'd west 
His burning journey. What was time to them, 
Who heard, entranced, the eternal Word of Life ? 

But the weak flesh grew weary. Hunger came, 
Sharpening each feature, and to faintness drain'd 
Life's vigorous fount. The holy Saviour felt 
Compassion for them. His disciples press, 
Care-stricken, to his side: "Where shall we find 
Bread in this desert ?" 

Then, with lifted eye. 
He bless' d, and brake the slender store of food. 



300 BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 



And fed the famish'd thousands. Wondering awe 
With renovated strength inspired their souls, 
As, gazing on the miracle, they mark'd 
The gather'd fragments of their feast, and heard 
Such heavenly words as lip of mortal man 
Had never utter'd. 

Thou, whose pitying heart 
Yearn'd o'er the countless miseries of those 
Whom thou didst die to save, touch thou our souls 
With the same spirit of untiring love. 
Divine Redeemer ! may our fellow-man, 
Howe'er by rank or circumstance disjoin'd, 
Be as a brother in his hour of need. 



A DAISY FROM RUNIMEDE. 301 



ON TRANSPLANTING A DAISY FROM 
RUNIMEDE. 

From the green turf of Runimede 

A daisy's root I drew, 
Amid whose moisten'd crown of leaves 

A healthful bud crept through, 
And whisper' d in its infant ear 

That it might cross the sea, 
A cherish'd emigrant, and find 

A. western home with me. 

Methought it shrank at first, and paled, 

But when, on ocean's tide. 
Strong waves and mighty icebergs frown'd, 

And manly courage died, 
It calmly raised a crested head 

And smiled amid the storm, 
As if old Magna Charta's soul 

Inspired its fragile form. 



302 A DAISY FROM RUNIMEDE. 



So, where within ray garden plat 

I sow the choicest seed, 
Amid my favorite shrubs I placed 

The plant from Runimede; 
And know not why it may not draw 

Sweet nutriment the same, 
As when within that clime from whence 

Our gallant fathers came. 

There's liberty enough for all, 

If they but use it well ; 
And Magna Charta's spirit burns 

In e'en the lowliest cell : 
And the simplest daisy may unfold,, 

From scorn and danger freed ; 
So, make yourself at home, my friend, 

My flower of Runimede. 



THE GIFT 0;F APOLLO. 303 



THE GIFT OF APOLLO. 



A legend of ancient mythology relates, that the inhabitants of Methymnia, on the 
island of Lesbos, received from Apollo a genius for music and poetry, as a mark of his 
gratitude for having extended the rites of burial to the severed head of Orpheus. 



When Orpheus' limbs, by Thracian madness torn, 
Down the cold Hebrus' sounding floods were borne, 
The blood-stain'd lips in tuneful measures sigh'd, 
And murmur 'd music charm 'd the listening tide. 

Thus roam'd the head, complaining and distrest, 
Till Lesbian bands beheld the approaching guest. 
And, with indignant sorrow, shuddering bore 
The mangled victim to their verdant shore. 
With fragrant streams the quivering brows they lave. 
And cleanse the tresses from the briny wave, 
Spread a soft pillow in the earith's green breast, 
And with low dirges lull to dreamless rest. 
Then from the tossing surge hii5 lyre they gain, 
A treasured trophy for Apollo's fane, 



304 THE GIFT OF APOLLO. 

Round its fair frame funereal garlands bind, 
And mourn its lord, to silent dust consign'd. 

Hark ! — while its chords the gales of evening sweep. 
Soft tones awake, and mystic voices weep. 
"Eurydice !" in trembling love they sigh; 
"Eurydice !" the long-drawn aisles reply. 
And through the temple steals, in echoes low, 
The mournful sweetness of remember'd wo. 

Methymnia's sons, with new-felt warmth inspired, 
By all Apollo's soul of song were fired, 
Pour'd their rich ofi'erings round his golden shrine. 
Caught the rapt spirit, and the strain divine ; 
For he with smiles and priceless gifts repaid 
The men whose pious rites appeased his favourite's shade. 



BENEVOLENCE. 305 



BENEVOLENCE. 

The Bilver is mine, and the gold is mine, eaith the Lord of Hosts." — Hagqai ii. 8. 

Whose is tlie gold that glitters in tlie mine ? 
And whose the silver ? Are they not the Lord's ? 
And lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills, 
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs, 
Are they not His who made them ? 

Ye who hold 
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands 
By your own names, and lock your gather'd gold 
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name 
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be 
When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost, 
You fall away ? 

Point out to me the forms 
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact 
Glad mastership, and revel where you toil'd 
Sleepless and stern. St -ange faces are they all. 

20 ., ,. , 



306 BENEVOLENCE. 



Oh, man ! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs 
Thou knowest not who, — thou in thy mouldering bed, 
Unkenn'd, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep; 
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave 
Thy soul of good for them. 

Now, thou mayst give 
The famish' d food, the prisoner liberty, 
Light to the darken'd mind, to the lost soul 
A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege 
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art 
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult 
To be co-worker with the King of kings. 



BERNARDINE DU BORN. 307 



BERNAEDTNE DTJ BORN. 

King Henry sat upon his throne, 

And, full of wrath and scorn, 
His eje a recreant knight survej'd. 

Sir Bernardino du Born. 
While he that haughty glance return'd, 

Like lion in his lair, 
And loftily his unchanged brow 

Gleam'd through his crisped hair. 

" Thou art a traitor to the realm. 

Lord of a lawless band, 
The bold in speech, the fierce in broil, 

The troubler of our land ; 
Thy castles and thy rebel towers 

Are forfeit to the crown. 
And thou beneath the Norman axe 

Shalt end thy base renown. 



308 BERNARDINE DU BORN. 

"Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom, 
Thou with strange madness fired? 
Hath reason quite forsook thy breast ?" 

Plantagenet inquired. 
Sir Bernard turn'd him toward the king; 
He blench'd not in his pride : 
" My reason fail'd, my gracious liege, 
The year Prince Henry died." 

Quick at that name a cloud of wo 

Pass'd o'er the monarch's brow; 
Touch' d was that thrilling cord of love 

At which the mightiest bow. 
Again swept back the tide of years, 

Again his first-born moved. 
The fair, the graceful, the sublime, 

The erring, yet beloved. 

And ever, cherish'd by his side, 

One chosen friend was near, 
To share in boyhood's ardent sport 

Or youth's untamed career. 
With him the merry chase he sought 

Beneath the dewy morn, 
With him in knightly tourney rode 

This Bernardine du Born. 



BERNARDINE DU BORN. 309 

Then in the mourning father's soul 

Each trace of ire grew dim, 
And what his buried idol loved 

Seem'd cleansed of guilt to him ; 
And faintly through his tears he spake, 

" God send his grace to thee, 
And for the dear sake of the dead, 

Go forth, unscathed and free." 



310 MORN AND EVEN. 



MOKN AND EVEN. 

"Thou makest the outgomgs of the morning and of the evening to rejoice." — David. 

The outgoings of sweet morn ! See the light mist, 

That spreads its white wing to the heavens away ; 
See the fresh blossoms by the blithe bee kiss'd; 

The hilltop kindling 'neath the king of day ; 

Spire after spire, that drinks the genial ray ; 
The rocks, that in their rifted holds abide, 

And darkly frown, with heads for ever gray ; 
While the clear stream gleams out in trembling pride 
Through its transparent veil, like a fair, timid bride. 

Morn to the Earth ! the cup of life she quaffs, 

And countless voices hail the sparkling draught : 
Methinks the lamb beside its mother laughs ; 

Up soars the lark, with song his Maker taught; 

Sweet lisping murmurs wrap the infant's thought, 
As gladly from the cottage door it creeps ; 

The wild rill glitters through the lonely grot ; 
While' the hoarse sea, whose anthem never sleeps. 
Reverberates God's praise through all its sounding deeps. 



MORN AND EVEN. 311 



Morn to the watcher by the sick man's bed ! 

The slow, slow clock tells out the welcome hour, 
And to the air he springs with buoyant tread; 

The poor caged bird sings sweet in lady's bower ; 

The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower, 
Thrusts his sharp sickle mid the bearded grain ; 

While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power. 
With merry music wake the village plain. 
And toil comes forth refresh' d, and age is young again. 

The outgoings of mild eve ! the folded rose ; 

Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell ; 
The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose. 

While restless winds no more its murmurs swell; 

The stars emerging from their secret cell, 
A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep ; 

And then the queenly moon, attended well. 

Who o'er the mighty arch of heaven doth sweep, 

8peaking of Nature's King in language still and deep. 

The charms of eve "how sweet, he best can say. 
Who, sickening at the city's dust and noise, 

And selfish arts that Mammon's votaries sway, 
Turns to his home to taste its simple joys; 
There, climbing on his knee, his ruddy boys 

Wake that warm thrill that every care repays ; 



312 MORN AND EVEN. 

And fondly hasting from her bahy-toys, 
His prattling daughter seeks a father's gaze, 
And gives that tender smile which o'er his slumber plays. 

She, too, who wins her bread by toil severe, 

And from her home at early morn must go 
To earn the bread that dries her children's tear. 

How hails her heart the sun declining low ! 

Love nerves the foot that else were sad and slow. 
And when afar her lowly roof she spies, 

Forgot is all her lot of scorn and wo, 
A mother's rapture kindling in her eyes, 
While to her wearied arms the eager nursling flies. 

And see, from labour loosed, the drooping team, 

Unharness'd, hasting to their fragrant food ; 
While, fearful of the hawk's marauding scream, 

The broad-wing'd mother folds her helpless brood; 

In the cool chambers of the teeming flood 
The scaly monsters check their boisterous play ; 

And, closely curtain'd mid the quiet wood, 
The slumbering minstrels hush their warbling lay. 
While man's sweet hymn of praise doth close the summer- 
day. 



THE EMIGRAJNT MOTHER. 313 



THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 

From my own native clime, I took my way 
Across the foaming deep. My husband slept 
In his new grave, and poverty had stripp'd 
Our lonely cottage. Letters o'er the Avave, 
From brother and from sister, bade me come 
To this New World, where there is bread for all. 
So, with my heavy, widow'd heart I went. 
My only babe and I. 

Coarse, curious eyes 
Look'd searchingly upon me, as I sat 
In the throng'd steerage, with my sick, sick soul. 
But at each jeering word, I bow'd my head 
Down o'er my helpless child, and was content, 
For he was all my world. 

Storms rock'd the bark, 
And haggard fear sprang up, with oaths and cries. 
Yet wondrous courage nerved me. For to die 
With that fair, loving creature in my arms, 
Seem'd more than life without him. If a shade 



314 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 

Of weariness or trouble mark'd my brow, 
He look'd upon me with his father's eyes, 
And I was comforted. 

But sickness came. 
Close air, and scanty food. Darkly they press'd 
On feeble infancy, and oft 1 heard. 
As mournful twilight settled o'er the sea, 
The frequent plunge, and the wild mother's shriek, 
When her lost darling to the depths went down. 
Then came the terror. To my heaving breast 
I closer clasp'd the child, and all my strength 
Went forth in one continued sigh to God. 
Scarcely I slept, lest the dire pestilence 
Should smite him unawares. E'en when he lay 
In peaceful dreams, the smile upon his cheek, 
I trembled, lest the dark-wing' d angel breathed 
Insidious whispers, luring him away. 

It came at last. That dreadful sickness came, 
The fever — short and mortal. Midnight's pall 
Spread o'er the waters, when his last faint breath 
Moisten'd my cheek. Deep in my breaking heart 
I shut the mother's cry. 

One mighty fear 
Absorb'd me, lest his cherish'd form should feed 
The dire sea-monsters, nor beneath the sods 



THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 315 

Of the green, quiet, blessed earth, await 
The resurrection. 

So, I shuddering press'd 
The body closer, though its deadly cold 
Froze through my soul. 

To those around, I said, 
"Disturb him not — he sleepeth." Then I sang 
And rock'd him tenderly, as though he woke 
In fretfulness, or felt the sting of pain. 
My poor, dead baby ! Terrible to me 
Such falsehood seem'd. But yet the appalling dread 
Lest the fierce, scaly monsters of the sea 
Should wind around him with their gorging jaws, 
O'ermaster'd me. 

Nights fled, and mornings dawn'd, 
And still my chill arms clasp'd immovably 
The shrivelling form. They told me he was dead. 
And bade me give my beautiful to them, 
For burial in the deep. With outstretch'd hands 
They stood demanding him, until the light 
Fled from my swimming eyes. 

But when I woke 
From the long trance, that icy burden lay 
No longer on my bosom. Pitying words 
The captain spake — "Look at yon little boat 
Lash'd to our stern. There, in his coffin, rests 



316 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 

The body of thy son. If in three days 
We reach the hmd, he shall be buried there 
As thou desirest." 

There, from breaking morn, 
My eyes were fix'd; and when the darkness came, 
By the red binnacle's uncertain light 
I watch' d that floating speck amid the waves, 
And pray'd for land. 

As thus I kept my watch, 
Like desolate Rizpah, mournful visions came 
Of my forsaken cottage ; while the spring 
Of gushing crystal, where 'neath bowering trees 
We drew our water, gurgled in my ear 
To mock me with its memories of joy. 
My throat was dry with anguish, and when voice 
Fail'd me to pray for land, I lifted up 
That silent, naked thought, which finds the Throne 
Sooner than pomp of words. 

With fiery face 
And eager foot, the third dread morning rose 
Out of the misty deep, and coldly rang 
The death-knell of my hope. 

As o'er the stern 
I gazed with dim eye on the flashing brine, 
Mcthought its depths were open'd, and I saw 
Creatures most vile, that o'er the bottom crept, 



THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 317 

Lizards and slimy serpents, hideous forms 
And shapes, for which man's language hath no name ; 
While to the surface rose the monster shark, 
Intent to seize his prey. 

Convulsive shrieks. 
Long pent within my bleeding heart, burst forth. 
But from the watcher at the mast there came 
A shout of '■'■ Land !'' and on the horizon s edge 
Gleam' d a faint streak, like the white seraph's wing. 
Oh ! blessed land ! We near'd it, and my breath 
Was one continued gasp — Oh! blessed land! 

A boat was launch' d. With flashing oar it reach'd 
A lonely isle. Bent o'er the vessel's side, 
I saw them dig a narrow grave, and lay 
In the cool bosom of the quiet earth 
The little body that was mine no more. 
Nor wept I: for an angel said to me, 
" God's will ! God's will ! and thy requited prayer 
Remember !" 

To my hand a scroll they brought. 
Bearing the name of that deserted strand, 
And record of the day in which they laid 
My treasure there. They might have spared that toil : 
A mother's unforgetful love needs, not 
Record or date. 



318 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 

The ship held on her course 
To greener shores. There came an exile's pain, 
Beneath a foreign sky. 

Yet 'twere a sin 
To mourn with bitterness the boy whose smile 
Cheers me no more, since the sea had him not, 
Nor the sea-monsters. 

• Endless praise to Him, 

Who did not scorn the poor, weak woman's sigh 
Of desolate wo. 

No monument is thine, 
Oh babe ! that 'neath yon sterile sands dost sleep. 
Save the strong sculpture in a mother's heart ; 
And by those traces will she know thee well 
When the graves open, and before God's throne 
Both small and great are gather' d. 



HEALING AT SUNSET. 319 



HEALING AT SUNSET. 

"At even, when the sun did set, they brought unto him all that were diseased." 
Mask i. 32. 

Judba's summer-day went down, 

And lo ! from vale and plain, 
Around the heavenly Hoaler throng'd 

A sick and sorrowing train. 

The pallid brow, the hectic cheek, 

The cripple bent with care. 
And he whose soul dark demons lash'd 

To foaming rage, were there. 

He raised his hand, the lame man leap'd, 

The blind forgot his wo. 
And with a startling rapture gazed 

On Nature's glorious show. 

Up from his bed of misery rose 

The paralytic pale. 
While the loathed leper dared once more 

His fellow-man to hail. 



320 HEALING AT SUNSET. 

The lunatic's illumined brow, 
With smiles of love o'erspread, 

Assured the kindred hearts that long 
Had trembled at his tread. 

The mother to her idiot-boy 
The name of Jesus taught, 

Who thus with sudden touch had fired 
The chaos of his thought. 

Yes, all that sad, imploring train 
He heal'd ere evening fell, 

And speechless joy was born that night 
In many a lonely cell. 

Ere evening fell ! Oh ye, who find 

The chills of age descend, 
And with the lustre of your locks 

The almond-blossom blend ; 

Haste, ere the darkening shades of night 
Have every hope bereaved, 

Nor leave the safety of the soul 
Unstudied, unachieved. 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 321 



DEATH OF AN INFANT * 

Death found strange beauty on that polish' d brow, 
And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose 
O'er cheek and lip. He touch'd the veins with ice, 
And the rose faded. 

Forth from those blue eyes 
There spake a wistful tenderness, a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone may Avear. With ruthless haste, he bound 
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
For ever. 

There had been a murmuring sound. 
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear. 
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
The seal of silence. 



* This little poem has heen inserted, by mistake, in one of the American editions of 

the late Mrs. Hemans. Though this is accounted hy the real author as an honor, it is 

still proper to state, that it ivas originally composed at Hartford, in the winter of 1824, 

and comprised in a volume of poems, published in Boston, by S. G. Goodrich, Esq., in 1827 

Should other testimony be necessary, it may be mentioned that a letter from Mrs. Hemans, 

to a friend in this country, pointing out some poems in that volume which pleased her, 

designated, among others, this " Death of an Infant." 
21 



322 DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

But there beam'd a smile, 
So fix'd, so tolj, from that cherub brow, 
Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
The »ignet-ring of heaven. 



FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 323 



FILIAL PIETY OF DxiYID. 

Adullam's sheltering cavern bent 

O'er many an exile's head, 
Who from the tyrant sway of Saul 

In discontent had fled ; 
And he, the leader of that band. 

Came forth in sadden'd thought, 
And to a foreign monarch's court 

His suit a suppliant brought : 

" Oh, King of Moab !" bowing down 
With trembling lip he said 
Who oft to victory's crimson field 
Had Israel's thousands led, 
*' I pray thee, let mine aged sire. 
And she beside whose knee 
My earliest, lisping prayer was learn'd, 
In safety dwell with thee. 



324 FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 

" Lest, while the adverse torrent's force 

With struggling breast I stem, 
My hands grow weak, my spirits faint, 

In anxious care for them ; 
For with an outlaw's ceaseless pain, 

I wander to and fro. 
And wait Jehovah's righteous will 

More perfectly to know." 

Then forth to Moab's pitying prince 

His aged sire he led. 
The cavern dampness on the locks 

That silver'd o'er his head ; 
And, leaning on his vigorous arm, 

A wrinkled woman came. 
The mother of the many sons 

Who honour'd Jesse's name. 

The youngest and the dearest one 

Now woke her parting tear, 
And sorrow shook his manly breast 

That ne'er had quail'd with fear ; 
While, drawing near the monarch's side, 

In low and earnest tone 
He press'd upon his soften'd heart 

The treasures of his own. 



FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 



325 



Low kneeling at his parent's side, 

That blessing he besought, 
Which ever in his childish years 

Had calm' d each troubled thought ; 
While they with fond and feeble hand 

His clustering curls among, 
Jehovah's majesty and might 

Invoked with faltering tongue. 

With tearful thanks to Moab's king. 

The exile left the place. 
For filial duty well discharged 

Shed sunshine o'er his face ; 
And sweet as when on Bethlehem's vales 

He fed his fleecy flock, 
The dew of holy song distill'd 

Like honey from the rock. 

" God is my light ! Why should I fear, 

Though earth be dark with shade ? 
God is the portion of my soul, 

Why should I be afraid ? 
Unless his arm had been my stay 

When snares were round me spread, 
My strength had fainted and gone down 

To silence and the dead. 



326 FILIAL PIETY OF DAVID. 

" Father and motlier, dear and true 

The homeless one forsake, 
While like the hunted deer, my course 

From cliff to cliff I take. 
Though kings against my life conspire, 

And hosts in hate array' d, 
God is the portion of my soul ; 

Why should I be afraid ?" 



THE IVY. 327 



THE lYY. 

Beautiful plant, clasping the ruin'd tower 
That Time hath wreck' d, and venturing fearless up 
Into the frosty sky ! hast thou a heart 
For constant friendship, that thou thus dost dare 
Peril, and storm, and winter's tyranny, 
With changeless brow? 

The lonely shaft that falls 
From its high place, thou in thy helpful arms 
Dost wind embracing, its disjointed stones 
Knitting with thy strong root-work, like a mesh 
Of living nerves. 

The brown and gnarled trunk, 
Whose heart the worm hath eaten, thou dost deck 
As for its bridal, hiding every seam 
And wrinkle with thy br older 'd drapery. 
The broken column mid the desert sands, 
Where dim antiquity Jiath dozed so long 
That slow oblivion stole the date away 
Which history seeks in vain, thou still dost gird 



328 THE IVY. 

And cherish as a tender wife, who loves 
Best when all else forsake. 

'Twas sweet to sit 
Beneath thy shade, and mark thee closely wrap 
The castellated domes of the old world ; 
For though within no habitants were found, 
Save noisome bats, or the gray, boding owl, 
Uttering her nightly shriek, yet thou untired 
Didst do thy pleasant work of charity. 
Feeding the glad birds with thy berries sere, 
That thickly nested mid thy niches green. 
Art thou a Christian, Ivy, — thus to clothe 
The naked, and the broken heart to bind. 
And bless the old, and cheer the desolate ? 
A teacher sure thou art, and shouldst be rank'd 
Among the few who by example teach. 
Making a text-book of their own strong heart 
And blameless life. 

And should we linger here. 
Till our props fall around us, and each rose 
Fades in our grasp, oh ! might one friend remain. 
Fond and unchanged like thee ; we scarce should heed 
The touch of wasting time. 

.Yea, should some stone 
Or funeral column chronicle our name. 
Stretch out thine arms, and wreathe it, reaching forth 



THE IVY. 329 

Thy freshly lustrous leaf, and showing all 
The young who wander there, how to be true 
In love, and pitiful to wo, and kind 
To hoary age, and with unswerving heart 
Do good to those who render naught again. 



330 THE AGED BISHOP. 



THE AGED BISHOP. 

A scene at the closing of a Convention in Virginia, by the venerable Bishop Moore. 

They cluster' d round, that listening throng, 

The parting hour drew nigh, 
And heighten' d feeling, deep and strong, 

Spoke forth from eye to eje; 

For reverend in his hoary years, 

A white-robed prelate bent, 
And trembling pathos wing'd his words, 

As to the heart they went. 

With saintly love he urged the crowd 

Salvation's hope to gain, 
While, gathering o'er his furrow'd cheek, 

The tears fell down like rain. 

He waved his hand, and music woke 

A warm and solemn strain; 
His favourite hymn swell'd high, and fiU'd 

The consecrated fane. 



THE AGED BISHOP. 331 

Then from the hallow' d chancel forth, 

"With faltering step, he sped. 
And fervent laid a father's hand 

On every priestly head. 

And breathed the blessing of his God, 
And, full of meekness, said, 
"Be faithful in your Master's work 
When your old bishop's dead. 

"For more than fifty years, my sons, 
A Saviour's love supreme 
Unto a sinful world, hath been 
My unexhausted theme : 

"Now, see, the blossoms of the grave 
Are o'er my temples spread ; 
Oh ! lead the seeking soul to Him 
When your old bishop's dead." 

Far waned the holy Sabbath-eve 

On toward the midnight hour, 
Before the spell-bound throng retired 

To slumber's soothing power; 



332 THE AGED BISHOP. 

Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream, 

Beheld in snowy stole 
That patriarch-prelate's bending form, 

Whose accents thrill' d the soul. 

In smiles the summer morn arose, 
And many a grateful guest, 

Forth from those hospitable domes. 
With tender memories, press'd; 

While o'er the broad and branching bay, 
Which like a heart doth pour 

A living tide, in countless streams. 
Through fair Virginia's shore. 

O'er Rappahannock's fringed breast. 

O'er rich Potomac's tide, 
Or where the bold, resistless James 

Rolls on with monarch-pride, 

The boats that ask nor sail nor oar, 
With speed majestic glide. 

And many a thoughtful pastor leans 
In silence o'er their side; 



THE AGED BISHOP. 338 

And, while he seems to scan the flood 

In silver 'neath him spread, 
Revolves the charge, ^'■Be strong for Grod 

When your old bishop's dead." 



334 THE RAINBOW. 



THE RAINBOW. 

Mountain ! that first received the foot of man, 
Giving him shelter when the shoreless flood 
That whelm'd a buried world went surging by, 
I see thee in thy lonely grandeur rise ; 
I see the white-hair' d Patriarch, as he knelt 
Beside his earthen altar mid his sons, 
While beat in praise the only pulse of life 
Upon this buried planet, — O'er the gorged 
And furrow'd soil swept forth a numerous train, 
Horned, or cloven-footed, fierce or tame, 
While, mix'd with song, the sound of countless wings, 
His rescued prisoners, fann'd the ambient air. 

The sun drew near his setting, clothed in gold, 
But on the Patriarch, ere from prayer he rose, 
A darkly-cinctured cloud chill tears had wept, 
And rain-drops lay upon his silver hairs. 
Then burst an arch of wondrous radiance forth. 
Spanning the vaulted skies. Its mystic scroll 



THE RAINBOW. 335 



Proclaim' d the amnesty that pitying heaven 
Granted to earth, all desolate and void. 

Oh signet-ring ! with which the Almighty seal'd 
His treaty with the remnant of the clay 
That shrank before him, to remotest time 
Stamp wisdom on the souls that turn to thee. 
Sublime Instructor ! who four thousand years 
Hast ne'er withheld thy lesson, but unfurl' d. 
As shower and sunbeam bade, thy glorious scroll, 
Oft, mid the summer's day, I musing sit 
At my lone casement, to be taught of thee. 
Born of the tear-drop and the smile, methinks, 
T^iou hast affinity with man, for such 
His elements and pilgrimage below. 
Our span of strength and beauty fades like thine, 
Yet stays its fabric on eternal truth 
And boundless mercy. 

The wild floods may come, 
The everlasting fountains burst their bounds. 
The exploring dove without a leaf return, 
Yea, the fires glow that melt the solid rock, 
And earth be wreck' d: What then? Be still, my soul; 
Enter thine ark ; God's promise cannot fail ; 
For surely as yon rainbow tints the cloud, 
His truth, thine Ararat, will shelter thee. 



336 THE THRIVING FAMILY. 



THE THRIVING FAMILY. 

A SONG. 

Our father lives in Washington, 

And has a world of cares, 
But gives his children each a farm. 

Enough for them and theirs. 
Full thirty well grown sons has he, 

A numerous race indeed, 
Married and settled all, d'ye see. 

With boys and girls to feed. 
So if we wisely till our lands. 

We're sure to earn a living. 
And have a penny, too, to spare 

For spending or for giving. 
A thriving family are we, 

No lordling need deride us, 
For we know how to use our hands, 

And in our wits we pride us. 
Hail, brothers, hail. 

Let nought on earth divide us. 



THE THRIVING FAMILY. 337 

Some of us dare the sharp north-east ; 

Some, clover fields are mowing ; 
And others tend the cotton plants 

That keep the looms a-going; 
Some build and steer the white-wing'd ships, 

And few in speed can mate them, 
While others rear the corn and wheat, 

Or grind the corn to freight them. 
And if our neighbours o'er the sea 

Have e'er an empty larder, 
To send a loaf their babes to cheer 

We'll work a little harder. 
No old nobility have we. 

No tyrant king to ride us ; 
Our sages in the Capitol 

Enact the laws that guide us. 
Hail, brothers, hail, 

Let nought on earth divide us. 

Some faults Ave have, we can't deny, 

A foible here and there ; 
But other households have the same, 

And so we won't despair. 
'Twill do no good to fume and frown, 

And call hard names, you see, 



338 THE THRIVING FAMILY. 

And what a shame 'twould be to part 

So fine a family ! 
'Tis but a waste of time to fret, 

Since Nature made us one, 
For every quarrel cuts a thread 

That healthful Love has spun. 
Then draw the cords of union fast, 

Whatever may betide us, 
And closer cling through every blast, 

For many a storm has tried us. 
Hail, brothers, hail, 

Let nought on earth divide us. 



FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 339 



FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 

The flowers were beautiful to me 

When childliood lured the way 
Along the green and sunny slope, 

Or through the groves to stray. 
They were to me as playmates dear, 

And when upon my knee 
I whisper' d to them in their beds, 

Methought they answer' d me. 

I bent to kiss them where they grew, 

And smiling bore away 
On lip and cheek the diamond dew 

That glittering deck'd their spray. 
The bud, on which no eye hath glanced, 

Save His who form'd its pride, 
Seem'd as a sister to my heart, 

For it had none beside. 



340 FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE. 

Then countless gay and fairy forms 

Gleain'd by, on pinions rare, 
And many a castle's turret bright 

Was pictured on the air; 
For Fancy held me so in thrall, 

And peopled every scene, 
That floAvers might only fill the space 

A thousand joys between. 

But as life's river nears its goal, 

And glittering bubbles break, 
The love of flowers is like his grasp 

Whom stronger props forsake, 
Who, drifting toward some wintry clime, 

Hangs o'er the vessel's side, 
To snatch one faded wreath of hope 

From out the whelming tide. 

Like his, who on the isthmus stands 

Whose ever-crumbling verge 
Divides the weary race of time 

From death's advancing surge. 
And sees, to cheer its dreary strand, 

Pale Memory's leaflets start. 
And binds them as a blessed balm • 

To heal his lonely heart. 




Aud set lii-s Lurden dowu. " 



' Awhile lie paused 



THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 341 



THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 

I SAW a boy who towards his cottage home 
A heavy burden bore. The way was steep 
And rocky, and his little loaded arm 
Strain' d downward to its full extent, while wide 
The other horizontally was thrown, 
As if to counterpoise the painful weight 
That drew him towards the earth. 

A while he paused 
And set his burden down, just where the path 
Grew more precipitous, and wiped his brow 
With his worn sleeve, and panting breathed long draughts 
Of the sweet air, while the hot summer sun 
Flamed o'er his forehead. 

But another boy, 
'Neath a cool poplar in a neighbouring field. 
Sat playing with his dog ; and from the grass 
Uprising, with light bound the coppice clear'd, 
And lent a vigorous hand to share the toil. 
So on they went together, grasping firm 



342 THE DIVIDED BURDEN, 

The basket's handle with a right good will; 

And while their young, clear voices met my ear, 

I recollected how the Bible said, 

"Bear one another's burdens," and perceived 

That to obey God's word was happiness. 

Then, as the bee gleans from the humblest flower 

Sown by the wayside, honey for her hive, 

I treasured up the lesson, and when eve 

Call'd home the labouring ox, and to its bed 

Warn'd the young bird, and shut the lily's cup, 

I took my little boy upon my knee. 

And told him of the basket-bearer's toil. 

And of the friend who help'd him. 

When his eye 
Swell'd full and round, and fix'd upon my face. 
Taking the story to his inmost soul, 
I said, "My son, be pitiful to all, 
And aid them when thou canst. 

For God hath sown 
Sweet seeds within us, seeds of sympathy. 
Whose buds are virtues, such as bloom for heaven. 

"If thy young sister weepeth, kiss the tear 
From her smooth cheek, and soothe with tender words 
Iler swelling breast ; or if a secret thorn 
Is in thy brother's bosom, draw it thence ; 



THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 343 

Or if thy playmate sorroweth, lend an ear, 
And share with sympathy his weight of wo. 

" And when thou art a man, my little one, 
Still keep thy spirit open to the ills 
Of foreigner and stranger, of the race 
Whom Afric's sun hath darken'd, and of those 
Poor red-brow'd exiles from our forest shades, 
Where once they ruled supreme. 

Thus shalt thou shun 
That selfishness which, wrapp'd in its own pride. 
Forgets alike the Giver and the grief 
Of those who mourn. 

So mayst thou ever find 
Pity and love in thine own time of need, 
If on thy young heart, as a signet-ring, 
Thou grav'st that motto from a Book Divine, 
'Bear one another's burdens, and fulfil 
The law of Christ.' " 



344 THE INFANT'S PRAYER. 



THE INFANT'S PRAYER. 

The west had shut its gate of gold 

Upon the parting sun, 
And through each window's curtaining fold 

Lamps glimmer'd one by one ; 
And many a babe had sunk to rest, 
And many a tender mother's breast 

Still lull'd its darling care. 
When in a nursery's quiet bound, 
With fond affections circled round, 

I heard an infant's prayer. 

Yes, there it knelt ; its cherub face 

Upraised with earnest air. 
And well devotion's heaven-born grace 

Became a brow so fair. 
Yet seldom at our Father's throne 
Such glad and happy child is known 

So tearfully to strive ; 



THE INFANTS PRAYER. 345 

For long, with trembling ardour fraught, 
That supplicating lip besought, 
"Please God, let Lilly live." 

And still went up the imploring strain, 

That little couch beside, 
As if for "poor sick Lilly's pain," 

It could not be denied. 
E'en when the balm of slumber stole 
With soothing influence o'er the soul, 

Like moonlight o'er the stream. 
The murmuring tone, the sobbing strife. 
The broken plea for Lilly's life, 

Mix'd with the infant dream. 

So Lilly lived, but not where time 

Is measured out by woes ; 
Not where stern winter chills the clime, 

Or canker eats the rose. 
And she who for that darling friend 
In agonizing love did bend, 

To pour the simple prayer. 
Safe from the pang, the groan, the dart. 
That grieve the mourning parent's heart. 

Lives with her Lilly there. 



346 THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 



THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 

Unfathom'd main ! who to thy dark embrace 
Hast taken the born of earth, the varied haunts 
Of his young boyhood's sport, the corn-clad fields 
Where erst he held the plough, remember him. 
Home and its many voices, wild with grief, 
Reproach thee for his absence, and demand 
Why he returns not. 

For with vigorous step 
He left his cottage-door. Through his young veins 
The health-tide coursed, and in each compact limb 
Strength revell'd. And with such confiding joy 
He turn'd to thee, that scarce a mother's wo 
Woke one brief tear. 

Who whispereth he is dead? 
Dead ! And how died he ? 

Answer us, thou Sea ! 
No doubt, thou fain wouldst hide the fearful tale, 
Tb» plunge, the gasp, the agonizing pang 
With which thy treacherous policy was seal'd. 



THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 347 

What right hadst thou, without one sound of knell, 
Or hallow'd prayer, or step of funeral train, 
In thy cold-hearted heathenism to take 
Him on whose brow the pure baptismal dew 
Was shed, which mark'd him of the fold of Christ ? 
E'en now thou roll'st above him, with the play 
Of all thy crested waves, mocking the trust 
Which, from the footing of the firm, green earth, 
He drew to place on thee. 

His boyish eye 
Thou lur'dst with pictures of the snowy sail 
Swelling in beauty, of the foreign port 
Replete with wealth, and of the glowing scene 
Of glad return. How hast thou kept thy pledge, 
Devouring main ? 

Oh ! break thy sullen pause. 
And tell us how he died. 

The storm was high. 
And, wrapp'd in midnight, mid the slippery shroud 
He miss'd his footing. Loose he swang and wide 
Over the boiling surge, a single rope 
Grasping convulsively, and on the blast 
Pouring wild cries for help. 

The strain'd ship lurch'd, 
And from the billows rose a voice of prayer 
Unto redeeming love. A rope was cast. 



348 THE VICTIM OF THE DEEP. 

Yet he beheld it not ; a life-boat lower'd, 
But the shrill echo of his comrades' shout 
Sank 'neath the tumult of the thunder-blast, 
And cold death-silence settled where he strove 
Briefly, with panting breast. 

Relentless Sea ! 
Doth it not grieve thee, that a broken heart 
Sinks heavy in a mother's breast for this? 
Or that a pale-brow' d maiden counts the hours, 
By sound of dropping tears ? 

But there shall come 
A blast of trumpet, and thy startled depths 
All the reft spoil of earth shall render back. 
Atom by atom. 

Then mayst thou arise 
In glorious beauty, Sailor-Boy ! and meet 
That Saviour's smile, whose name was on thy lip 
When broke the last wave o'er thee. 

Mayst thou hear 
His blessed welcome to a peaceful home 
Where there is no more sea. 



HAROLD AND TOSTI. 349 



HAROLD AND TOSTI. 

Tosti, a son of Earl Godwin, joined Hardrada, king of Norway, in an invasion of Eng- 
land, his native land, and fonght against his hrother Harold, the last of the Saxon 
monarchs, at the battle of Stamford-Bridge, September 25th, 1066. 

On England's shore, the pirate king 

Of Norway's frigid clime, 
From thrice a hundred beaked ships, * 

Debark' d his men of crime ; 
While at his side the outlaw son 

Of proud Earl Godwin came. 
And inany a child in terror shrank 

At dreaded Tosti's name. 

King Harold led a dauntless host. 

For every loyal thane, 
Arousing at his country's call, 

Convoked a vassal-train ; 
And while green Autumn robed the vales, 

And corn was waving high, 
Those vengeful armies frowning met. 

Where Derwent murmur'd by. 



350 HAROLD AND TOSTI. 

But England's power, in mass compact, 

Was ranged o'er hill and dale, 
Solemn, and motionless, and dark, 

A mountain clothed in mail. 
Then Harold paused a moment's space. 

Ere shafts in blood were dyed, 
And of Earl Edwin ask'd, who rode 

In armour by his side, — 

" Who wears yon scarf of azure dye. 

And helm of burnish'd gold ?" 
"•Hardrada, prince of Norway's realm, 

A warrior fierce and bold." 
"And who is he, with towering head, 

Majestic, firm, and cool, 
Who casts around such eagle-glance, 

As he the world would rule ?" 

" The rebel of Earl Godwin's line ;" 
Yet spared the words to speak. 

Thy brother, for he saw the blood 

• Forsake his sovereign's cheek ; 

And though he rein'd his prancing steed, 
His brow was pale as clay. 

That brow which ne'er had blanch'd before 
In battle's deadliest fray. 



HAROLD AND TOSTL 351 



Fraternal memories o'er his heart 

Like softening waters flow'd, — 
The mother's kiss, the mother's prayer, 

Alike on both bestow' d. 
Then parted from his armod ranks 

A knight of noble mien. 
And waved a snowy flag of truce 

Those frowning hosts between. 

" To Tosti, great Earl Godwin's son, 

King Harold bids me say, 
Why standst thou on thy native soil 

Amid its foes this day ? 
I yield thee all Northumbria's realm. 

The choicest of my land ; 
Lay down thine arms,, disperse thy host, 

And clasp a brother's hand." 

But Tosti turned to Norway's king : 

" Behold my friend," said he ; 

"What is thy monarch's boon for him, 

If such his gifts to me?" 
" Thus Harold answereth Norway's lord, 
Troubler of earth and wave ; 
Just seven good feet of English soil 
I yield thee for a grave." 



352 HAROLD AND TOST I. 

Then Tosti shouted, loud and wild, 

He smote his buckler proud, 
And spears and lances flash' d amain, 

Like lightning from the cloud; 
And England's mail-clad cavalry 

Rush'd on, with direst shock, 
As strikes old Ocean's stormy surge 

Against the fissured rock. 

Then calmly from the English lines 

Rode forth a mitred thane, 
Wulstan,* the bishop, wise and old. 

Of Worcester's sacred fane ; 
Though scarce the impetuous tide of war 

Held back its panting wave, 
While thus that white-hair 'd man of peace 

His sovereign's message gave : 

" Oh, Tosti ! by the memory dear 
Of boyhood's early trace, 
• When thou wert victor at the ring. 
And foremost in the chase. 



* Wulstan, the venerable Bishop of Worcester, had preriously accompanied King 
Harold into Northumberland, where a violent insurrection was quelled, without an ap- 
peal to the sword, by the influence of his elo(iuence and piety. He was one of the most 
revered of the prelates, whom the early Saxon chroniclers were accustomed to designate 
as mass-thanes, to distinguish them from the barons, or world-thanes. 



HAROLD AND TOSTI. 353 

And by our parent's blessed love, 

That still its vigil kept. 
When, cheek to cheek, and heart to heart, 

On the same couch we slept ; 

" E'en by the mercies of our Lord, 
Who for our sins did die. 
Spare the dire waste of blood, and take 
A brother's clemency." 
" Speed back, speed back, thou Saxon kern ! 
And, if thy steed be slow, 
The swift-wing' d darts of glorious strife 
May chance to lay thee low." 

And with the rebel's echoed ire, 

A tide of crimson rolls, 
With clang of shield and cloven helm, 

And cry of parting souls. 
Nor stay'd that deadly passion-strife, 

Till o'er the ensanguined plain 
The flying Northmen wail'd their kind, 

With haughty Tosti slain. 

Yet Harold, mid that triumph hour, 
His tent in sadness sought, 

23 2a2 



354 HAROLD AND TOSTI. 

And deem'd the victory all too dear 
A brother's blood had bought : 

While, on that field, the bleaching bones 
For many a year did tell, 

Where Peace the angel strove in vain 
The demon War to quell. 



DKEAxMS. 355 



DREAMS. 

Revere the mind, so full of mystery, 
E'en in its passive hours. Behold it roam, 
With unseal'd eye and wide unfolded wing, 
While the tired body sleeps. Immortal guest ! 
Our earthly nature bows itself to thee, 
Pressing its ear of flesh unto the sigh 
Of thy perturbed visions, if perchance 
It hear some murmur of thy birth divine. 
Thy deathless heritage. 

Ah ! dreams are dear 
To those whom waking life hath surfeited 
With dull monotony. When the long day 
Wends to its close, and stealthy evening steals. 
Like some lean miser, greedily to clutch 
Hope's wreath that morning gave, is it not sweet 
To close our eyelids, and to find the rose 
That hides no thorn, the gold that knows no rust, 
Scatter'd where'er we tread? Is it not sweet 
To 'scape from stern reality, and glide 



356 DREAMS. 



Where'er wild fancy marks her fairy way 

Unlimited ? If adverse fortune make 

Our pillow stony, like the patriarch's bed 

At lonely Bethel, do not pitying dreams 

Plant a bright ladder for the angels' feet, 

And change our hard couch to the gate of heaven, 

And feed our souls on manna, till they loathe 

Their household bread ? 

To traverse all unblamed 
Broad realms, more bright than fabled Araby; 
To hear unearthly music ; to inhale 
Ambrosial fragrance from the spicy groves 
That never fade ; to see the tyrant tomb 
Unlock its treasure-valve, and freely yield 
The loved, the lost, back to our glad embrace; 
To catch clear glimpses of the streets of gold. 
And harpers harping mid the eternal hills. 
These are the pastimes which the mind doth take 
While its poor clay companion slumbers deep, 
Weary and worn. 

If thou in wintry climes 
Shouldst exiled roam, thy very heart's blood chill'd. 
Lay but thy cold hand on a winged dream, 
And it shall bear thee straight with bounding pulse 
To drink tlie sunbeams of thine own blue skies. 
Where the young cottage children freely fill 



DREAMS. 357 

Their pinafores with flowers. Should ocean swell, 

Or the eternal niountains stretch their bars 

'Tween thee and thj loved home, how strangely sweet 

To touch the talisman of dreams, and sit 

Again on thine own sofa, hand in hand 

With the most loved, thj children near thy side 

At their untiring play, the shaded lamp 

Shedding its quiet beam, while now and then 

The clock upon the mantelpiece doth speak, 

To register the diamond sands of time, 

Made brighter by thy joys. So mayst thou holdr 

Existence in two hemispheres, and be 

Happy in both ; yea, in each separate zone 

Have thine own castles, and revisit them 

Whene'er it pleaseth thee. 

But more than this : 
If thou wilt seek the fellowship of dreams, 
And fearless yield thee to their loving sway, 
And make them friends, they'll swiftly bear thee up 
From star to star, and let thee hear the rush 
Of angel- wings, upon God's errands speeding; 
And, while they make some silver cloud thy car, 
Will whispering tell thee that the unslumbering soul 
Wears immortality upon its crest. 
And, by its very power to soar with them, 
Proves that it cannot die. 



358 THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 



THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 



In the palace of Versailles, a clock, during the whole life of the reigning monarch, 
pointed with its motionless hands to the hour when his predecessor died, and was only 
to be again moved at the moment of his own death. 



Where the halls with splendour glow, 
Where the gorgeous fountains throw 

Fullest flood, 
There a chronicler of time, 
Wrapp'd in mystery sublime, 

Mutely stood. 

Like the finger on the wall 
That Belshazzar's festival 

Dash'd with dread. 
Stern it bore the doom of fate. 
While the crowd with joy elate 

Check'd their tread. 

Fix'd as adamantine chain. 

Wilt thou never move again ? 



THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 359 

Then methought an inward strain 

Murmur'd low, 
" Blind with pomp or folly's chase 
Call the king ! He can trace 
The true answer in my face, 

He doth know. 

" When he struggleth long and sore, 
When he links to earth no more 

Hate or love, 
When his eye hath lost its light, 
When his hands grow stiff and white, 
Mine shall move. 

"When his crown availeth not, 
And the death-hues blear and blot 

Brow and cheek, 
When his tongue no more can frame 
Vaunt of power or moan of shame. 

Mine shall speak. 

" I shall speak — I shall move. 
While his fickle courtiers rove 

Far away ; 
With my doom of fate and fear 



360 THE CLOCK AT VERSAILLES. 

For the new-made monarch's ear 
I shall stay." 

Slow the murmur in the breast 
Died away, and there at rest, 

Still and stern, 
Stood that monitor sublime. 
Teaching truths that power and prime 

Shrink to learn. 



HEAVEN'S LESSON. 361 



HEAVEN'S LESSON. 

Heaven teacheth thee to mourn, friend beloved; 
Thou art its pupil now. The lowest class, 
The first beginners in its school, may learn 
How to rejoice. The sycamore's broad leaf, 
Thrill'd by the breeze, the humblest grass-bird's nest, 
Murmur of gladness ; and the wondering babe, 
Borne by its nurse out in the open fields, 
Knoweth that lesson. The wild mountain-stream 
That throws by fits its gushing music forth, 
The careless sparrow, happy though the frosts 
Nip his light foot, have learn' d the simple lore 
How to rejoice. Mild Nature teacheth it 
To all her innocent works. 

But God alone 
Instructeth how to mourn. He doth not trust 
This higher lesson to a voice or hand 
Subordinate. Behold ! He cometh forth ! 
sweet disciple, bow thyself to learn 
The alphabet of tears. Receive the lore, 

H 



362 HEAVEN'S LESSON. 



Sharp though it be, to an unanswering breast, 
A will subdued. And may such wisdom spring 
From these rough rudiments, that thou shalt gain 
A class more noble, and, advancing, soar 
Where the sole lesson is a seraph's praise. 
Yea, be a docile scholar, and so rise 
Where mourning hath no place. 



THEPRINCEOFEDOM. 363 



THE PRINCE OF EDOM. 

1 Kings xi. 21. 

The warriors of David came down in their ire, 
And Edom was scathed with their deluge of fire ; 
O'er the wrecks of its throne roll'd oblivion's dark flood, 
And the thirst of its valleys was satiate with blood. 

Its prince, a lone outcast, an orphan distrest, 
In the palace of Egypt found refuge and rest. 
And the queen's gentle sister, with eye like the dove, 
Became in her beauty the bride of his love. 

Yet still, a dark shade o'er his features would stray, 
Though the lute-strings thrill'd soft and the banquet was gay ; 
For the land of his fathers in secret he pined. 
And murmur'd his grief to the waves and the wind. 

" The voice of my country ! it haunteth my dreams, 
I start from my sleep at the rush of its streams ; 
Oh, monarch of Egypt ! sole friend in my wo, 
I would see it once more. Let me go ! let me go !" 



364 THE PRINCE OF EDOM. 



" Wouldst thou liie to the desert, and couch Avith the bear? 
Or the lion disturb in his desolate lair ? 
Wouldst thou camp on the ruins with brambles o'ergrown, 
While the blasts in their mockery respond to thy moan ? 

" KnoAv'st thou not that the sword of stern Joab was I'ed 
Till the dukes of Idumea were slaughter'd and dead ? 
Know'st thou not that his vengeance relax'd not, nor stay'd 
Till six moons wax'd and waned o'er the carnage he 
made?" 

" I know that our roof-trees in ashes were laid. 
And the vine and the olive hew'd down from each glade; 
Yet still some pale sprouts from their roots may be seen, 
And the clefts of the rock with their foliage be green. 

" I know that our virgins, so stately and fair, 
Who wreathed with the pearl and the topaz their hair, 
That our merchants, whose wealth with a monarch's has vied 
In Phoenicia and Zidon in bondage abide. 

" But roused by my trumpet, the captives shall haste 
From the far, foreign realms, where their life-blood they 

waste ; 
From the walls of Azotus with speed they shall fly. 
And nest, like the bird, 'neath their own native sky." 



THE PRINCE OF EDOM. 365 

'' prince of red Edom, content thee, be still ; 
Of the treasures of Egypt partake at thy will ; 
See, thy wife lights thy bower with the wealth of her charms, 
And thy babe, as she names thee, leaps high in her arms. 

" Thou know'st from thy realm all the people have fled. 
That the friends of thy childhood are cold with the dead ; 

« 

Every drop of thy blood from that region is reft, 
No voice of thy kindred to welcome thee left," 

" Let me go, king of Egypt, to visit my slain. 
To weep o'er their dust, who revive not again; 
Though nought in their courts save the lizard should glide, 
And the bat flap his wing in their chambers of pride, 

" Yet still shall Mount Seir in his grandeur remain, 
Still the rivers roll on to the fathomless main, 
If no tone of the living should solace my wo, 
To the land of my birth, let me go, let me go." 



366 THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 



THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 

He languish' d by the way-side, and fell down 
Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers 
Pledged to his lady-love. Like her heart's joys, 
They died with him. 

There was a widow'd form 
To whom the echo of his entering step 
Had been as music. All alone she sits, 
Tearful and pale. The world henceforth to her 
Is desolate and void. 

Young Love may weep. 
But sunbeams dry its tears ; and the quick pulse 
Of hope in Beauty's bosom doth o'ercome 
The syncope of grief. But unto Age 
Thus utterly bereaved, what now remains. 
Save, with bow'd head and finger on its lip. 
In solemn meekness and in sanctity, 
The Heavenly Pilot ever in its view. 
To pass the narrow strait that coldly bars 
Time from eternity ? 



THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 367 



THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 

A FORM there was, still spared by time 
Till the slow century fill'd its prime; 
Stretch' d on its bed, with half-closed eye 
It mark'd uncertain shades flit by; 
Nor scarce the varied world of sound 
To the seal'd ear admittance found; 
While the worn brow, in wrinkles dark, 
Seem'd like the gnarl'd oak's roughen'd bark. 

Oh ! e'er did youthful beauty deck 
Those wither'd limbs, yon living wreck ? 
Did blushes o'er that leathern cheek 
The warmth of wild emotion speak ? 
Did rosy health that lip bedew. 
And kneeling love for favour sue ? 
Alas ! alas ! for him who b^ars 
A hundred years earth's load of cares. 



368 THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 

'Twere vain to ask, what legends old 
That brain might in its chambers hold; 
What pictures in its gallery fade, 
Bj Fancy touch'd or Hope portray'd ; 
For Memory locks the cloister' d cell, 
And Silence guards the citadel; 
But still that weary woman's eye 
Doth gaze and fix on vacancy. 

Yet the faint lungs spontaneous play, 
The heart's pulsations hold their way, 
And helpless to the garden borne. 
Or laid beside the blossom'd thorn. 
What time the vernal noontide hour 
Gave deeper life to shrub and flower, 
Methought a quickening influence stole 
O'er stagnant veins, and frigid soul. 

A knell burst forth ! From turret high 
Its mournful cadence floated by; 
E'en on that rigid ear it broke, 
And, strange to say, the tear awoke. 
Then lo ! a hoarse, sepulchral tone, 
As when imprison'd waters moan. 
Moved the parch 'd lips to utterance free, 
"Ah ! when will that bell toll for me ? 



THE WISH OF THE WEARY WOMAN. 369 

"All, all are gone ! the husband dear, 
The loving child, the friend sincere. 
Once toward their graves with grief I prest, 
But now I bless their dreamless rest; 
For lone, amid a stranger-band, 
Sad relic of the past I stand ; 
Dead at the root, a blasted tree ; 
Ah ! when will that bell toll for me ? 

' Hath Death forgotten ? To his halls 
Childhood and youthful prime he calls ; 
In bowers of love, or domes of pride. 
He finds them, wheresoe'er they hide : 
Fain would they 'scapp, but to his sight 
I hasten, and his shaft invite. 
Hath God forgot ? I bend the knee, 
Oh, let that knell be toll'd for me !" 



370 THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 



THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 

Know'st thou the Leader of that band who toil 
The everlasting gospel's light to shed 
On earth's benighted climes ? 

Canst tell the name 
Of the first Teacher in whose steps went forth, 
O'er sultry India, and the sea-green isles, 
And to the forest children*of the West, 
A self-denying band, who counted not 
Life dear unto them, so they might fulfil 
Their ministry, and save the heathen soul ? 

Judea's mountains from their breezy heights 
Reply, "We heard him when he lifted up 
His voice, and taught the people patiently 
Line upon line, for they were slow of heart." 
From its dark depths the Galilean lake 
Told hoarsely to the storm-cloud, how he dealt 
Bread to the famish'd throng with tender care, 
Forgetting not the body, while he fed 



THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 371 

The immortal spirit; how he stood and heal'd , 
Daj after day, till evening shadows fell 
Around the pale and paralytic train, 
Lame, halt, and blind, and lunatic, who sought 
His pitying touch. 

Mount Olivet in sighs 
Spake mournfully, "His midnight prayer was mine; 
I heard it, I alone, as all night long 
Upward it rose, with tears for those who paid 
His love with hatred." 

Kedron's slender rill 
That bathed his feet, as to his lowly work 
Of mercy he went forth, still kept his name 
Securely hoarded in its secret fount, 
A precious pearl-drop ! 

Sad Gethsemane 
Had memories that it falter'd to repeat, 
Such as the strengthening angel mark'd appall' d, 
Finding no dialect in which to bear 
Their wo to heaven. 

E'en Calvary, who best 
Might, if it would, our earnest question solve. 
Press' d close its flinty lip, and shuddering bow'd 
In silent dread, remembering how the sun 
Grew dark at noonday, and the sheeted dead 



372 THE FIRST MISSIONARY. 

Came from their mouldering sepulchres, to walk 
Among the living. 

But the bold bad host, 
Spirits of evil, from the lake of pain. 
Who held brief triumph round the mystic cross, 
Bare truthful witness, as they shrieking fled, 
"We know thee who thou art, the Christ of God:" 
While heaven, uplifting its eternal gates, 
With chant of cherubim and seraphim. 
Welcomed the Lord of glory entering in, 
His mission done. 



TO MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 373 



A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS 
CHILDREN. 

Come, gather closer to my side, 

My little smitten flock. 
And I will tell of him who brought 

Pure water from the rock; 
Who boldly Jed God's people forth 

From Egypt's wrath and guile, 
And once a cradled babe did float 

All helpless on the Nile. 

You're weary, precious ones, your eyes 

Are wandering far and wide ; 
Think ye of her who knew so well 

Your tender thought to guide ? 
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore 

Your fix'd attention claim ? 
Ah ! never from your hearts erase 

That blessed mother's name. 



374 TO MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 

My youngest infant dove ; 
Come, press your velvet cheek to mine, 

And learn the lay of love ; 
My sheltering arms can clasp you all, 

My poor deserted throng ; 
Cling as you used to cling to her 

Who sings the angel's song. 

Begin, sweet birds, the accustom'd strain ; 

Come, warble loud and clear; 
Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all. 

You're sobbing in my ear. 
Good-night — go say the prayer she taught 

Beside your little bed ; 
The lips that used to bless you there 

Are silent with the dead. 

A father's hand your course may guide 

Amid the thorns of life. 
His care protect those shrinking plants 

That dread the storms of strife ; 
But who, upon your infant hearts, 

Shall like that mother write ? 
Who touch the strings that rule the soul ? 

Dear, smitten flock, good-night ! 



SORROW AS ON THE SEA. 375 



"SORROW AS ON THE SEA." 



^^ Sorrow as on the sea." 

man of grief, 
Prophet ! who in the troublous time of siege 
And famine, when the fierce Chaldean bands 
Invaded Israel, didst predict her fate 
And feel her vengeance, didst thou ever taste 
The sorrow of the sea ? Strength reft awaj, 
The spirit melted, hope in darkness lost, 
And that eternal loathing, day by day. 
Born of those cruel tossings that forbid 
The tortured nerve upon its rack to rest, — 
For these, thy plaintive harp, thai^^ sang so well 
Of prison woes, must strike anothei: string 

Thunder upon the main ! 

Ho, mariner, 
For whom the landsman in his happy home 
Hath little feeling, mount the shrouds, go up 



376 SORROWASONTHESEA. 



Into the inky blackness, dare the shaft 
Of heaven's red lightning on the pointed mast, 
Speck as thou art, which neither sea nor sky 
Own, or remember, mid their maniac strife. 
The good ship breasts the surge, intent to bide 
The battle bravely. Yet, like hunted deer, 
It croucheth in the hollow of the sea, 
Until the full-mouthed billows drive it forth 
Reeling and scathed. Anon, the madden'd winds 
Pour out fresh forces, and with riven crest 
It rusheth desperate o'er the terraced wave, 
Vex'd by their dread artillery. hearts 
Of human mould ! that, soften' d by the love 
Of home and kindred, have endured the scourge 
Of Ocean's tempests, or upon the wreck, 
Week after week, held with untold despair 
Gaunt fellowship, ye might a tale unfold 
To daunt the dream, and turn the revel pale. 

Sorrow as on the sea ! 

A woman mourns, 
Pale as the little marble form she folds 
Close in her arms, resisting all who touch 
The darling of her bosom. 

"'Twill awake; 
It hath but fainted. The wild, rocking sea 



SORROW AS ON THE SEA. 377 

Hatli made it sick. I tell ye 'twill revive. 
Child ! baby ! look on me ! 'TavIII smile again." 
"Yes, mother, yes! but not below the skies." 
Spasm and convulsion seize her at the thought 
That the dear idol, whom but yesterday 
She cradled from the zephyr's roughen'd breath, 
Alone must to the unfathom'd depths go down, 
And for its little body find a bed 
Amid the scaly monsters of the deep. 
Yet so it is. And she must wend her way 
O'er the stern waves that made her desolate, 
To her far home again, having let fall 
Her soul's chief jewel in the trackless deep. 

Sorrow as on the sea I 

Ye know it not 
"Who feel a firm foundation 'neath your feet. 
And sleep, unvex'd by waves. Death comes indeed. 
But smites you in the sacred place of graves. 
Where ye may lay your dead with solemn knell 
A.nd tender sympathies of funeral train, 

id duly visit them, and dress their couch 
vVith blessed flowers, type of their rising day. 
Yea, from the gray-hair' d sexton on his spade, 
Bespeak your own turf-pillow where to lie. 
And rest beside them, when in God's good time 



378 SORROW AS ON THE SEA. 

The pale death-angel comes to summon thee. 
True, there is grief on earth. But when ye drain 
Its cup of bitterness, give thanks to God 
If, in your pilgrimage, ye ne'er have known 
The sorrow of the sea. 



MUTATIONS. 379 



MUTATIONS. 

As waves the grass upon the fields to-day, 
That soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away; 
As smiles the floAveret in the morning dew, 
That eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew, 
Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay, 
Thus bloom awhile, then wither and decay. 

I saw an infant in its robe of white, 
The admiring mother's ever dear delight ; 
It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by, 
And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye. 
Again I came — an empty crib was there, 
A narrow coflfin, and a funeral prayer. 

I saw a boy in healthful vigour bold, 
Nor summer's heat he fear'd, nor winter's cold ; 
With dexterous foot he dared the frozen pool. 
His laugh rang loudest mid his mates at school. 
Again I came — his name alone was found 
On one low stone that crowns yon swelling mound. 



380 M U T A T I N S. 



I saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd, 
In youth resplendent, and by love caress'd; 
Her clustering hair in sunny ringlets glow'd, 
Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd. 
Again I came — her parents' halls were lone, 
And o'er her turf-bed rose the weeper's moan. 

Oh boasted joys of earth ! how swift ye fly, 
Rent from the heart or hidden from the eye ; 
So through the web the weaver's shuttle glides, 
So speeds the vessel o'er the billowy tides, 
So cleaves the bird the liquid fields of light, 
And leaves no furrow of its trackless flight. 

Dust tends to dust, with ashes ashes blend; 
Yet when the grave engulfs the buried friend, 
A few brief sighs may mark its yawning brink, 
A few salt tears the broken clods may drink, 
A few sad hearts with bursting anguish bleed, 
And pay that tribute which they soon must need. 

They soon must need ! But life's returning cares 
Sweep ofi" the precious fruit that sorrow bears ; 
The mourner drops his sable, and aspires 
To light anew ambition's smother'd fires, 




i saw a gentle raai(imliLl)ea.utry"Mess'd., 
In youtli lesplexident, and ty.loTe caiess'd,. 



MUTATIONS 381 



Bathe his worn brow with labour's wasting dew, 
And, sleepless, toil for heirs he knows not who. 

Thus He who marks us in our vain career, 
In wisdom darkens what we hold most dear; 
Shreds from our vine the bowering leaves away, 
And breaks its tendrils from their grovelling stay, 
That the rich clusters, lifted to the sky. 
May surer ripen for a world on high. 



382 OUR COUNTRY. 



OUR COUNTRY. 

Land of broad rivers and of ocean-lakes, 
Sky-kissing cliffs and prairies prank'd with flowers, 
That, seated on thy mountain-throne, dost hear 
The Atlantic and Pacific's mighty surge 
Battling against thy coast, and throw to each 
Thj'- snow-white sails, that visit every clime 
And kindred under heaven, — fair land ! free land ! 
How glorious art thou. 

Mid thy cultured vales 
The sturdy reapers sing, garnering the corn 
That feedeth other realms besides their own. 
— Toil lifts his brawny arm, and takes the wealth 
That makes his children princes ; Learning wins 
By studious lamp the better gold, that dreads 
Nor rust nor robber's wile ; Art deftly brings 
Tissue and tincture and the fretted stone ; 
Strange steeds of iron, with their ceaseless freight. 
Tramp night and day ; while the red lightning bears 
Thy slightest whisper on its wondrous wing. 



OUR COUNTRY. 3S3 



— Proudly thou spread'st thine eagle-pinion o'er 
The exiled, and the crush'd from every clime, 
Giving them welcome. May no vulture beak 
Transpierce thee for thine hospitality. 
But sons of strangers build thy walls, and call 
Thy gates salvation. 

'Neath thy lofty dome 
'Tis good to linger, where, in conclave high, 
Convene the chosen from thy many States, 
Sages, and men of eloquence, who stretch 
Their line of travel through an empire's length 
To pour their wisdom at thy shrine, and make 
Thy union perfect. From the wind-swept hills, 
To where the rich magnolia drinks the breath 
Of fervid suns — from the great, beating heart 
Of the young, giant West, to where the East, 
Wrinkled v/ith thought, doth nurse a nation's mind. 
They come to do thee honour. There, to list 
The grave debate, or catch the kindling thrill 
With which impassion'd eloquence maintains 
Thine equal laws, inspires the ardent prayer 
Of patriot love, that God would hold thee safe, 
And firmly knit thy children's hearts, to share 
One home, one destiny. 

A mighty wind 
Doth shake the palaces of ancient time. 



384 OUR COUNTRY 



And voices mid the despot thrones are heard, 

Crying, as in Jerusalem of old, 

" Let us depart !" But thou, my blessed land. 

Like some fair hearth which hovering angels guard. 

Gather thine offspring round thee, and make bright 

Their hallow'd chain of love. Warn them to bear 

Each other's burdens, seek the common good. 

Be pitiful to error, and repress 

Each ruder breath that stirs to wrathful deeds. 

Oh, beautiful and glorious ! thou dost wrap 
The robes of Liberty around thy breast, 
And as a matron watch thy little ones 
"Who from their cradle seek the village school, 
Bearing the baptism on their infant brow 
Of Christian faith and knowledge, like the bud 
That, at the bursting of its sheath, doth feel 
Pure dews, and heavenward turn. 

There is thy strength, 
Li thy young children, and in those who lead 
Their souls to righteousness. The mother's prayer 
With her sweet lisper, ere it sinks to rest — 
The faithful teacher mid a plastic group — 
The classic halls — the hamlet's slender spire 
From whence, as from the solemn gothic pile 
That crowns the city's pomp, ascendeth sweet 



OUR COUNTRY. 385 



Jehovah's praise — these are thy strength, my land ! 
These are thy hope. 

Oh ! lonely ark, that rid'st 
A tossing deluge, dark with history's wrecks, 
And paved with dead who made not Heaven their help, 
God keep thee perfect in thy many parts, 
Bound in one living whole. 

25 



386 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 

Where art thou, old friend ? 

When last 
This familiar haunt I past, 
Thou didst seem in vigorous cheer, 
As like to stand as any here. 
With roof-tree firm, and comely face 
Well preserved in attic grace. 
On columns fair thine arches resting. 
Among thy trees the spring-birds nesting ; 
Hast thou vanished ? Can it be 
I no more shall gaze on thee ? 

Casements whence the taper's ray 
Glitter'd o'er the crowded way. 
Where, embalm' d in fragrant dew, 
Peer'd the snowy lilac through ; 
Chimneys whence the volumed smoke 
Of thy warm heart freely spoke ; 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 387 



Fallen and gone ! No vestige left, 
Stone from stone asunder reft, 
While a chasm, with rugged face, 
Yawns and darkens in thy place. 

Threshold ! which I oft have prest, 
More a habitant than guest, 
For their blessed sakes who shed 
Oil of gladness on my head. 
Brows with hoary wisdom drest. 
Saints who now in glory rest, 
Fain had I, though tear-drops fell. 
Said to thee one kind farewell : 
Fain with tender, grateful sigh, 
Thank' d thee for the days gone by. 

Hearth-stone ! where the ample fire 
Quell' d old Winter's fiercest ire. 
While its blaze reflected clear 
On the friends who gather' d near, 
On the pictures quaint and old, 
Thou of quiet pleasures told ; 
Knitting-bag, and storied page. 
Precepts grave from lips of age. 
Made the lengthen'd evening fleet 
Lightly, with improvement sweet. 



388 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION, 

Fallen dome ! beloved so well, 
Thou couldst many a legend tell 
Of the chiefs, of ancient fame, 
Who to share thy shelter came. 
Rochambeau and La Fayette 
Round thy plenteous board have met, 
With Columbia's mightier son, 
Great and glorious Washington. 
Here with kindred minds they plann'd 
Rescue for an infant land, 
While the British lion's roar 
Echoed round the leaguered shore. 

He, who now where cypress weeps, 
On Mount Vernon's bosom sleeps. 
Once in council grave and high 
Shared thy hospitality, 
When the sound of treason drear, 
Arnold's treason, met his ear. 
Heart that ne'er in danger quail'd. 
Lips that ne'er had faltered paled. 
As the Judas' image stole. 
Shuddering, o'er his stainless soul, 
And he sped, like tempest's shock. 
On to West Point's perill'd rock. 



REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 389 



Beauty here, with budding pride, 
Blossom' d into youth, and died; 
Manhood tower' d with ruling mind, 
Age in reverent arms declined, 
Bridals bright and burials dread 
From thy gates their trains have sped ; 
But thy lease of time is run, 
Closed thy date, thy history done. 

All are vanish' d, all have fled, 
Save the memories of the dead ; 
These with added strength adhere 
To the hearts that year by year 
Feebler beat, and fainter glow, 
Till they rest in turf below ; 
Till their place on earth shall be 
Blotted out, old dome, like thee. 

Other fanes, 'neath favouring skies, 
(Blessings on them !) here may rise ; 
Other groups, by hope be led, 
(Blessings on them !) here to tread ; 
Yet of thee, their children fair 
Nothing wot, and nothing care. 
So a form, that soon must be 
Number' d with the past like thee. 



390 REMOVAL OF AN ANCIENT MANSION. 

Rests with pilgrim-staff awhile, 
On thy wreck, deserted pile, 
And the dust that once was thine 
Garners for affection's shrine. 



THE LOST LILY. 391 



THE LOST LILY. 

Fain would I tell a tale of Wyoming 
In days long past. There was a rural home, 
Lonely, yet pleasant, near whose door a brook, 
Where water-cresses grew, went singing by. 
In its small garden, many a cultured bush 
Of ripening berries mingled here and there 
With spicy herbs, sage and the bee-loved thyme, 
While through thick bougl» the blushing apple peer'd, 
Betokening thrift and comfort. 

Once, as closed 
The autumn-day, the mother by her side 
Held her young children, with her storied lore. 
Fast by her chair, a bold and bright-eyed boy 
Stood statue-like, while closer, at her feet. 
Sate his two gentle sisters. One, a girl 
Of some seven summers, youngest, and most loved 
For her prolonged and feeble infancy. 
She lean'd upon her mother's lap, and look'd 
Into her face with an intense regard, 



393 THE LOST LILY. 



And the quick, intermitting sob that shows 
The listening spirit. 

Pale she was, and fair, 
And so exceeding fragile, that the name 
Given by her wilder playmates, at their sports, 
Of "Lily of the Vale," seem'd well bestow'd. 
The mother told them of her native clime, 
Her own, beloved New-England ; of the school. 
Where many children o'er their lessons bent. 
Each mindful of the rules, to read, or spell, 
Or ply the needle at the appointed hour ; 
And how they serious sate, with folded hands, 
When the good mistress through her spectacles 
Explain'd the Bible. 

0? the church she spake, 
With snowy spire, by elms o'er-canopied; 
And how the sweet bell, on the Sabbath morn. 
Summon' d from every home the people forth, 
All neatly clad, and with a reverent air. 
Children by parents led, to worship God. 
Absorb'd in such recital, ever mix'd 
By that maternal lip with precepts pure 
Of love to God and man, they scarcely mark'd 
A darkening shadow o'er the casement steal. 
Until the savage footstep and the flash 
Of tomahawk appall'd them. 



THE LOST LILY. 393 



SAvift as thought 
They fled, through dell and thicket, closely track'd 
By grim pursuers. The frail mother, tax'd 
With the loved burden, of her youngest born, 
Moved slowest, and they cleft her fiercely down ; 
Yet with that impulse which doth sometimes move 
The sternest purpose of the red man's breast 
To a capricious mercy, spared the child. 
Her little struggling limbs, her streaming eyes 
Averted from the captors, her shrill cry 
Stealing in fitful echoes from afar, 
Deepen'd the mother's death-pang. 

Eve drew on, 
And from his toil the husband and the sire 
Turn'd wearied home. With wondering thought he mark'd 
No little feet came forth to welcome him; 
No Lily of the Vale, who first of all 
Was wont to espy him. 

Through the house he rush'd 
Empty and desolate, and down the wild. 
There lay his wife, all weltering in her blood. 
Upon the trampled grass. In vain he bore 
The form of marble to its couch, and strove 
Once more to vivify that spark of life 
Which ruthless rage had quench'd. 

On that dread hour 



394 THE LOST LILY. 



Of utter desolation, broke a cry, 

"Oh, father! father!" and around his neck 

Two weeping children wound their trembling arms, 

Saved mid the thicket's tangled depths, to share 

The burden of his wo. 

With tireless zeal, 
That sad dismember'd household sought the child 
Reft from their arms, and oft with shuddering thought 
Revolved the horrors that must mark her lot, 
If life were hers. And when the father lay 
In his last, mortal sickness, he enjoin'd 
His children never to remit their search 
For the lost Lily. 

Years roll'd on their course ; 
The boy became a man, and o'er his brow 
Stole the white, sprinkled hairs. Around his hearth 
AVere children's children, and one pensive friend. 
His melancholy sister, night and day 
Mourning the lost. At length, a rumour came 
Of a white Avoman found in Indian tents. 
Far, far away. A father's dying words 
Came o'er the husbandman, and up he rose. 
And took his sad-eyed sister by the hand. 
Blessing his household, as he bade farewell, 
For their uncertain pilgrimage. 

They prest 



THE LOST LILY. 395 

O'er cloud-capp'd mounts, throiigli forests dense witli shade, 
O'er bridgeless rivers, swoln to torrents hoarse, 
O'er prames like the never-ending sea, 
Follovring the chart that had been dimlj traced 
By stranger-guide. 

At length they reach' d a lodge 
Deep in the wilderness, beside whose door 
A wrinkled woman with the Saxon brow 
Sate coarsely mantled in her blanket-robe. 
The Indian pipe between her shrivell'd lips. 
Yet in her blue eye dwelt a gleam of thought, 
A hidden memory, whose electric force 
Thrill'd to the fount of being, and reveal'd 
The kindred drops that had so long wrought out 
A separate channel. 

With affection's haste 
The sister clasp'd her neck. "Oh lost and found ! 
Lily ! dear sister ! praise to God above !" 
Then in wild sobs her trembling voice was lost. 
The brother drew her to his side, and bent 
A long and tender gaze into the depths 
Of her clear eye. That glance unseal'd the scroll 
Of many years. Yet no responding tear 
Moisten' d her cheek, nor did she stretch her arms 
To answer their embrace. 

«0h, Lily! love! 



396 THE LOST LILY. 

For whom tliis heart so manj jears hath kept 
Its dearest place," the sister's voice resumed, 
"Hast thou forgot the home, the grassy bank 
Where we have play'd ? The blessed mother's voice 
Bidding us love each other ? and the prayer 
With which our father at the evening hour 
Commended us to God?" 

Slowly she spake: 
"I do remember, dimly, as a dream, 
A brook, a garden, and two children fair, 
A loving mother with a bird-like voice. 
Teaching us goodness ; then a trace of blood, 
A groan of death, a lonely captive's pain; 
But all are past away. 

Here is my home, 
These are my daughters. 

If ye ask for him, 
The eagle-eyed and lion-hearted chief. 
My fearless husband, who the battle led, 
There is his grave." 

" Go back, and dwell with us, 
Back to thy people, to thy father's God," 
The brother said. "I have a happy home, 
A loving wife and children. Thou shalt be 
Welcome to all. And these, thy daughters too, 
The dark-eyed and the raven-hair'd, shall be 



THE LOST LILY. 397 

Unto me as mine own. My heart doth yearn 
O'er thee, our hapless mother's dearest one. 
Let my sweet home be thine." 

A trembling nerve 
Thrill'd all unwonted at her bosom's core, 
And her lip blanch' d. But the two daughters gazed 
Reproachfully upon her, to their cheek 
Rushing the proud Miami chieftain's blood, 
In haughty silence. So, she wept no tears ; 
The moveless spirk of the race she loved 
Had come upon her, and her features show'd 
Slight touch of sympathy. 

"Upon my head 
Rest sixty winters. Scarcely seven were past 
Among the pale-faced people. Hate they not 
The red man in their heart ? Smooth Christian words 

They speak, but from their touch we fade away 

As from the poisonous snake. 

Have I not said 

Here is my home ? and yonder is the bed 

Of the Miami chief ? Two sons who bore 

His brow, rest on his pillow. 

Shall I turn 

My back upon my dead, and bear the curse 

Of the great Spirit ?" 

Through their feathery plumes, 



398 THE LOST LILY. 



Her dark-eyed daughters mute approval gave 
To these stern words. 

Yet still, with faithful zeal, 
The brother and the sister waited long 
In patient hope. If on her brow they traced 
Aught like relenting, fondly they implored, 
" Oh Lily ! go with us !" and every tale 
That pour'd o'er childhood's days a flood of light 
Had the same whisper'd burden. 

• Oft they walk'd 
Beside her, when the. twilight's tender hour. 
Or the young moonlight, blendeth kindred hearts 
So perfectly together. But in vain ; 
For with the stony eye of prejudice, 
Which gathereth coldness from an angel's smile. 
She look'd upon their love. 

And so they left 
Their pagan sister in her Indian home, 
And to their native vale of Wyoming 
Turn'd mournful back. There, often steep'd in tears, 
At morn or evening, rose the earnest prayer. 
That God would keep in their lost Lily's soul 
The seed her mother sow'd, and by His grace 
So water it that they might meet in heaven. 



TWILIGHT. 399 



TWILIGHT. 

There is a dimness, like a doubt, 

That wrappeth earth and sky, 
When Day hath in its glory died, 
And ere the Night comes forth with pride 
Of sable majesty. 

'Tis like the soft delay of Youth, 

Where Love hath built its throne ; 

A coy reluctance, ere it rest 

Entirely on another's breast. 
To be no more its own. 

It is the gentle pause of Heaven, 

E'en as a mother mild, 
Before some new bequest is lent', 
Inquireth how the last was spent 

Of her forgetful child. 

Then Conscience, like that fearful cry 
Mid Eden's deep repose, 



400 T W I L I G H T. 



"Where is thy brother ?" turns its ray 
Upon the annal of the Day, 
That to its funeral goes. 

Perchance, the queenly Moon descends, 

And lo ! the haughty Sea 
On her pale face doth fix his eye, 
And bids his mightiest tides comply, 
And OAvn her regency. 

Yet Twilight gray to me is dear. 
More than the blushing Day, 

Or noontide's plenitude of light, 

Or sober certainty of Night, 
Or Moon with silver ray. 

For then, at scepter'd Memory's call, 

Long buried years awake. 
And tread in charmed circles back. 
With music, o'er their flowery track, 
Their ancient seats to take. 

And parted friends, of whom we say. 

In beds of clay they rest. 
Bend meekly down from glory's sphere, 
And with their angel smile, or tear, 
Allure us to the blest. 



THE UNRIFLED CABINET. 401 



THE UNRIFLED CABINET. 

"Then shall we no more look into our cabinet, and miss its treasures." — 

Baxter. 

When shall that time be ? When ? 

So many buds 
We shelter' d in the garden of our heart, 
Yet ere their young sheaths open'd to the sun. 
They curl'd their leaves and died, we shrink to fill 
Their vacant places, lest the same sharp grief 
And trouble come upon us. Life doth seem, 
With all its banners of felicity, 
Like the fair alcove of the bard, and seat 
Illusory, on which we find no rest.* 

In the mind's store-house, gold we had, and gems 
Gather' d from many a tome. The key we gave 
To Memory, and she hath betray'd her trust. 



♦^ The author of the Night Thoughts had in his garden an alcove, with the represen- 
tation of a seat so well painted as to deceive most ohservers. Near it was the inscription, 
" Invisibilia non decipiunt." 
The things unseen do not deceive us. 
26 2L 2 



402 THE UNRIFLED CABINET. 

For when we ask of her, she saith that years 
And sleepless cares disturb'd her, till she lost 
Our stewardship of thought. When shall it be 
That we may hoard for intellect, nor find 
The work-day World, or stealthy Time, a thief? 

Leases of tenements amid the sands 
And on the cloud, papers and bonds we had, ^ 

In Earth's handwriting, well endorsed and seal'd 
By smooth-tongued Hope. 

They're lost ! The lock is forced ! 
The casket rifled ! All our treasures gone ! 
And only a brown cobweb in their place, 
Spun by some mocking spider. 

Still, ye say 
We may obtain a cabinet, whose hoard 
Robber, nor faithless friend, nor rust of years, 
Shall e'er invade. 

When shall that time be ? When ? 

When Heaven's pure gate unfoldeth, and thy soul 
Glides like a sunbeam through. 

Then shall it be. 



TALK WITH TIME. 403 



TALK WITH TIME AT THE CLOSE OF 
THE YEAR. 

Time, old Time, with the forelock gray, 
While the year in its dotage doth pass away, 
Come, sit by my hearth, ere the embers fail. 
And hang the scythe on yon empty nail, 
And tell me a tale 'neath this wintry sky 
Of the deeds thou hast done as its months swept by. 

"I have cradled the babe in the churchyard wide; 
From the husband's arms I have taken the bride; 
I have cloven a path through the Ocean's floor, 
Where many have sunk to return no more ; 
I have humbled the strong with their dauntless breast. 
And laid the old with his staff to rest. 

"I have loosen'd the stone on the ruin's height, 
Where the curtaining ivy grew rank and bright ; 
I have startled the maid in her couch of down, 
With a sprinkle of white mid her tresses brown ; 
I have rent from his idols the proud man's hold. 
And scatter'd the hoard of the miser's gold." 



404 TALK WITH TIME. 

" Is this all ? Are thy clironicles traced alone 
On the riven heart and the burial-stone ?" 
"No, Love's young chain I have twined with flowers, 
Have awaken'd a song in the rose-crown'd bowers; 
Proud trophies have rear'd to the sons of fame. 
And paved the road for the cars of flame. 

"Look to yon child, it hath learn'd of me 
The word that it lisps at the mother's knee ; 
Look to the sage, who from me hath caught 
Intenser fire for his heavenward thought ; 
Look to the saint, who hath nearer trod 
Toward the angel hosts near the Throne of God. 

"I have planted seeds in the soul, that bear 
The fruits of heaven in a world of care ; 
I have breathed on the tear till its orb grew bright 
As the diamond drop in the realms of light : 
Question thy heart, hath it e'er confest 
A germ so pure, or a tear so blest ?" 

But the clock struck twelve from the steeple gray. 
And he seized his hour-glass, and strode away; 
Yet his hand at parting I fear'd to clasp. 
For I saw the scythe in its earnest grasp. 
And read in the glance of his upward eye 
His secret league with Eternity. 



MAN'S THREE GUESTS. 405 



MAN'S THREE GUESTS. 

A KNOCKING at the castle-gate 

When the bloom was on the tree, 
And the youthful master, all elate, 

Himself came forth to see. 
A jocund lady waited there, 
Gay was her robe, of colours rare. 
Her tresses bright to the zephyr stream'd. 
And her car on its silver axle gleam'd, 
Like the gorgeous barge of that queen of yore, 
Whose silken sail and flashing oar 
Sparkling Cydnus proudly bore. 
The youth, enraptured at her smile. 
And won by her enchanting wile 

And flatteries vain, 
Welcomed her in, with all her train, 
Placing her in the chiefest seat. 
While as a vassal at her feet 
He knelt, and paid her homage sweet. 



406 MAN'S THREE GUESTS. 



She deck'd his halls with garlands gay, 
Bidding the sprightly viol play, 

Till by her magic power 
Day turn'd to night, and night to day, 
. For every fleeting hour 
Bow'd to Pleasure as its queen ; 
And so, that siren guest, of mirthful mien, 
Linger'd till the vernal ray 
And summer's latest rose had sigh'd itself away. 

A knocking at the gate ! 
And the lordling of the hall, 
A strong and bearded man withal. 
Held parley at the threshold-stone 
In the pomp of his estate. 
And then the warder's horn was blown. 
The ponderous bolts drawn one by one. 
And slowly in, with sandals torn. 
Came a pilgrim, travel-worn. 
A burden at his back he bare. 
And coldly said, "My name is Care!" 
Plodding and weary years he brought. 
And a pillow worn with ceaseless thought; 

And bade his votary ask of Fame, 
Or Wealth, or wild Ambition's claim, 
Payment for the toil he taught. 



MAN'S THREE GUESTS 407 



But dark with dregs was the cnp he quaff 'd, 

And mid his harvest proud 
The mocking tare looked up and laugh'd 
Till his haughty heart was bow'd, 
And wrinkles on his forehead hung, and o'er his path a cloud. 

Again, a knocking at the gate 
At the wintry eventide. 
And querulous was the voice that cried, 

"Who Cometh here so late ?" 
" Ho ! rouse the sentinel from his sleep, 
Strict guard at every loop-hole keep !" 
And "man the towers !" he would have said. 
But alas ! his early friends were dead, 
And his eagle glance was awed, 
And a frost that never thaw'd 

Had settled on his head. 
But that thundering at the gate 
From morn till midnight late. 

Knew no rest, 
And a boding tone of fate, 
Like an owlet's cry of hate, 

Chill'd his breast. 
Yet he raised the palsied hand, 
And, eager, gave command 
To repel the threatening guest. 



408 MAN S THREE GUESTS. 

So the Esculapian band, 

In their armour old and tried, 
Were summon'd to his side. 
And the watchful nurses came, 
Whose lamp, like vestal flame, 
Never died. 
But the tottering bulwarks their trust betray'd. 
And the old man groan'd as a breach was made ; 
Then through the chasm a skeleton foot 

Forced its way, 
And a fleshless hand to a shaft was put. 
And he was clay. 



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